


Let it Build

by Rosetta (ARollingStone), Stuffy (HarveyDangerfield)



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Anal Sex, Belly Kink, Bottom Ford, Dom/sub, Exhibitionism, Homophobic Language, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Overstimulation, Prostate Milking, Public Blow Jobs, Public Masturbation, Sex Toys Under Clothing, Stuffing, Subspace, Top Stan, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-29
Updated: 2019-01-29
Packaged: 2019-10-19 02:14:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17592743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ARollingStone/pseuds/Rosetta, https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarveyDangerfield/pseuds/Stuffy
Summary: Stanley takes Ford to a fairgrounds far away from town where they can be anonymous, in order to indulge him in a secret kink he's never given into before: exhibitionism.Ford is completely overcome.





	1. Pig Races

**Author's Note:**

> this is going to be posted in chapters because this is literally 40 pages of smut and porn, it would be obscene if it was posted in one chunk. 
> 
> i'm going to be separating it up scene by scene, so every time the boys get nasty there will be a scene break in between!
> 
> this is written with my spouse at grvnklestan on tumblr <3

There had been some prepping involved in the lead up to today, and not just the obvious. It had taken a big effort on Stan's part to convince Ford that this would even be fun, let alone possible--in fact, it had been nearly two weeks of begging before Stan ordered the toy and finally just tossed it to him while he'd been in his lab one night, ordering him to put it on so they could test it out; and really it had been downhill from there, but in the best possible way.  
  
Getting Ford to crack on things is perhaps Stan's biggest super power, strength aside.  
  
The day of, he'd made sure to get Ford nice and worked up before they put the toy inside. He'd sucked his cock to completion, something Stan isn't in common practice of doing, but he's no less skilled in the art for it, and once he'd worked him open with his fingers, slipping the toy inside had been easy; but he'd promised him, that first orgasm was just the start of the day. At least he'd let him wear dark slacks.  
  
The way to the fair, the thing sits comfortably wedged inside Ford--it's hard to walk up to the ticket booth with it in there, but Stan's acting so casual it makes it a little easier to go along for the ride. He's promised him they'll look at all the exhibits, even the nerdy ones, and go to all the shows, including the the circus that's set up shop at the north end of the fair.  
  
They're walking toward the entrance when Stan reaches into his pocket and turns on the vibe setting, just on low and he grins as he watches his brother's footfalls stumble a little, and he reaches out to right him just as a few passerby shoot him an odd look.  
  
"Stanley," Ford mutters through gritted teeth as he feels a flush creeping over his face already. "I'm having second thoughts about this..." if he really was, he'd use his safeword, and Stan knows that. This is about being pushed, being forced outside of his comfort zone, being made to do something he secretly enjoys without it being technically his fault.  
  
The low buzz really isn't anything more than a dull little hum in the back of his mind, but it's still enough to feel, and it's enough to make his cheeks and ears go dark with embarrassment. He knows the toy isn't loud enough for anyone to hear, especially in such an open, crowded space, but he still can't help the thrill of fear that someone will be able to deduce just from looking at his face that he has a vibe up his ass.  
  
"Second thoughts, huh?" Stan sidles up beside him and claps him hard on the back, hard enough to make him stumble again, and he grabs him by the back of the neck, that one small gesture enough to snap Ford to attention; that's one of their gestures, how he knows Stan is in that Zone and he's aware of their silent agreement. He's not going to let Ford chicken out on this one.  
  
The hand in his pocket turns the toy to a pulse setting, which punches a little deeper into Ford's insides, but even so he doesn't let him stop walking, he's practically dragging him along by the nape of his neck, aware of how it looks to other people; but he's grinning broadly as he addresses Ford now.  
  
"You wanna go see the pig races or should we go see one of your nerd exhibits first? Keep in mind, I wanna go to that flea market thing too."  
  
"I, uh-- I--" Ford starts, breathing a little harder as he blinks in the hot sun. He feels too warm, the turtleneck clinging to his body in a tight, sticky hug. He'd worn a lightweight linen one in a handsome heather grey, but it's still sweltering.  
  
The cock ring around his prick and balls at least keeps him from getting too hard as the light pulse starts up right against his prostate. There are so many people here it's dizzying, so many people walking right by him while he stands there dumbly, blushing like a virgin, his brain failing to fire on even half his synapses as his own brother holds him by the neck like a puppet that needs to be propped up.  
  
"You-- I don't care, you decide," Ford says, panting softly. "I'm following you."  
  
"Pig races it is." Stan grunts, and he relinquishes his hold on Ford's neck, walking right past him, but he does spare a glance over his shoulder, just to make sure he has no designs to fall behind and get an easy way out.  
  
The "Pig Races" as Stan had called them, are just what they sound like--a little track set up much like a horse racing track, with a betting pool and everything, though the bets being placed seem to be fair tokens, rather than actual money. That doesn't sway Stan however, who places several and returns to Ford's side--and at some point he'd gotten himself a nice, big order of cheese fries.  
  
Blessedly, he lets Ford sit down on the bench with him, the pulse on the vibe turned off to let him relax for a little bit; but there's a new kind of torture in that Stan is eating his cheese fries as loudly and lewdly as possible, though it's hard to tell if he's hamming it up or he's just enjoying them *that* much--enough to make little growls under his breath when he takes a bite. It makes Ford squirm in a different way.  
  
Ford really has no interest in the races, and it shows in the way he sits ramrod straight without any excitement for the proceedings, instead chewing over his lips as he throws sideways glances at Stan. It's a big order of fries, enough to make the ordinary person feel full, but he knows it won't even put a dent in Stan's appetite.  
  
The vibe might be off, but he can still feel the pressure of it, pressed up against his taint, tight around his balls, and plugged up his ass pressing into his prostate. He can still feel the dull pressure of it sitting there, and every time he so much as shifts his foot it massages everything from the base of his balls, across his perineum, past his rim and up into his ass.  
  
"Are you going to finish that whole thing?" Ford asks after a few minutes, his cheeks a dark shade of red as he watches Stan suck cheese off his thumb. The tone of his voice is clipped, and easily interpreted as, Please finish the whole thing.  
  
Taking another big mouthful, Stan doesn't even answer him at first, he just chews, looking straight at his brother. "Why? You hopin' or you jealous? 'Cuz if you're feelin' neglected, I've got somethin' in my pocket that might help."  
  
He licks cheese out of the corner of his mouth and reaches a hand into his leather jacket--Ford can hear the click before he feels it, but then the plug is vibrating again, but it's clear Stan has turned it up more than the first time; and it's all Ford can do to be thankful for the cheering of the crowd as the orsine racers zip around the track, because he whines a little under his breath.  
  
And Stan--he goes right back to eating, but Ford's staring isn't lost on him. He takes bites that are too big, his lips greasy with cheese and ranch dressing, and whenever his fingers get too messy, he just licks them clean, knowing full well that his brother is watching every bob of his throat and flicker of his lips.  
  
Ford's ears have gone cherry red now, and he crosses his arms on the beam of the bleachers in front of him, hiding his face against them for a moment just so he can allow his expression to go slack with pleasure as he looks at the filthy ground. His eyes roll back slightly and his mouth drops open, and he pants openly as his hips rotate in tiny, almost imperceptible circles. The pressure of sitting down on the plug as it buzzes in his ass is almost unbearable, even at such a low level.  
  
And worst of all, even hidden like this he can still hear Stan. The sounds he's making are absolutely obscene, and he has to wonder how nobody else has said anything-- which only reminds him of how many people there are around them right now. His thighs start to tremble just slightly with the effort to keep them relaxed and avoid pumping himself back against the cushioned bench.  
  
He's definitely doing it on purpose--the noises he's making, none of them could be real even if he tried, though Ford is aware of how noisy he normally is while eating, he's making a concerted effort to be heard over the crowd, and that fact is both infuriating and intoxicating at the same time.  
  
And this is just the tip of the iceberg, the first in a long line of things Stanley is going to do to drive him crazy.  
  
The race ends and is heralded by three things--Stan demolishing the rest of those cheese fries, the crowd dispersing, and Stan belching so loud that passerby stare at him, visibly shaken by the toe-curling sound. Ford's aware that he's not stuffed, but Stan certainly plays it up, smirking sidelong at his brother, running a hand over the curve of his heavy gut.  
  
"That was a nice start, but I think I'm gonna get some pizza on a stick." He leans in, making like he's just admiring the field where the pigs are being prepared for another race, and as he does he whispers. "Don't think I didn't see you grindin' against that thing, Sixer."  
  
Ford's eyes almost cross at the feeling of Stan's hot breath and low growl in his ear, and his hips jerk down once, hard, against the bleachers. He whimpers low and quiet in his throat and swallows hard, his saliva sticking in his throat, dry from panting.  
  
"I wasn't," he protests, his voice shaking slightly as he tries to rise to his feet, a nearly painful tingle setting into the corner of his jaw and behind his ear.  
  
"Sure you weren't." Stan chides, and he gets to his feet too--though he's not heartless, he does reach out to help steady Ford, keeping a close eye on him as they make their way toward the betting area and Stan collects the tokens he'd won, which sure enough, is a pretty sizeable sum. He'd always been lucky.  
  
They make their way down the thoroughfare again. He hasn't turned the vibe off completely, but where it had been an aching roll against his insides during the race, it's now a softer thrum, more tolerable but it's enough to keep his toes curling as they stand in line for Stan to order yet *more food,* how he can still be hungry after all those fries . . . well, it's no mystery, but it still makes heat clench low in Ford's belly at the thought of him filling up on fatty food.  
  
They walk away from the stand, a very large cup of lemonade and a 'pizza on a stick' in tow. Well, several pizzas on a stick, all laid out pretty in a basket which Stan nibbles from, and he tugs Ford along toward one of the exhibits he'd promised to view with him.  
  
It's some sort of perpetual motion machine with brightly colored ribbons--something local college kids had put together to show how inertia in space works. It's pretty and brightly colored, with pulsing lights and music, quite soothing to look at, although the constant, grating sound of Stan chewing is ever present in Ford's right ear.  
  
Ford grips the barricade between the boardwalk and the attraction, leaning on it just slightly. His cock is aching, stuck in a perpetual state of half-hardness and tucked hard against his thigh where it will be strapped out of the way just in case he does manage to get fully hard even with the tight cock ring keeping him in check. Nevertheless he can feel it leaking against his thigh, and the pleasure coiling in his stomach has his eyes fluttering shut every few seconds for just a moment at a time. To anyone else, he just looks sleepy.  
  
He looks over at Stan to see that he's already polished off three of those things, and his stomach does a little flip, his knuckles going white as he holds onto the railing. He's sweating, his forehead is shiny and there's a tiny damp spot in the middle of his chest, and Stan can see that one of his thighs is flexing and straining like he's trying to keep it from giving out. He knows Ford's tells-- he can see that he's close.  
  
Without making a big fuss about it, Stan moves up beside him, offering him a shoulder to lean on if he needs it. He smells like that deep dark cologne, cigar smoke and now cheese and pepperoni--combined with the noise going on around them, it's intoxicating and overstimulating all at once.  
  
Stan takes another bite, but he's watching Ford out of the corner of his eye. There's a few spectators milling around nearby them, and he waits for them to move off to the next exhibit to lean in and whisper to Ford, "If you let loose right here, you've got to be quiet, Sixer; but you have my permission to cum . . ."  
  
It's the word permission that does him in. Ford's stomach clenches up so hard that it actually makes him double over slightly, and for the sake of acting natural he leans into it, bending to rest his elbows on the railing. He covers his face with his hands to try and make it look like he's just a normal guy rubbing his face, but it also gives him the freedom to let his face contort. His brows furrow and his mouth opens slightly behind his hands and he comes, hard.  
  
A light tremble breaks out over his body, he locks his knees just to keep from collapsing as the vibe in his ass massages relentlessly against his sweet spot. He can't direct the stimulation in any concerted sort of way, so the toy brushing him in the right way to make him zing happens only by chance every few moments, giving him a run for his money just to not thrust his hips into the open air to try and make the vibrations go where he needs to prolong the pleasure.  
  
In the lull between the next group of tourists and seekers, Stan places a hand on Ford's back, rubbing in a slow circle that indicates to his brother that he has him, no matter what happens today, in this moment, he has his back.  
  
It's all Stan can do not to get hard himself. He closes his eyes and counts down from twenty, just rubbing Ford's back--to an outsider it looks like he's comforting a man who might very well be on the verge of throwing up; and that's not far off, really. Letting the pleasure ride out for a bit, Stan watches him closely, and when Ford's motions are reduced to small trembles, he reaches into his pocket and cuts the vibrations off.  
  
Ford instantly sags in relief, exhaling hard and uncovering his face. Just feeling the vibe shut off is enough to make him feel like he can breathe again and he inhales shakily. "Stanley," he whispers, his hands shaking. "I did it-- jesus christ. I just c-- in my-- in _public_ \-- there's _people_ , Stanley..."  
  
"There are--you _did._ " Stan says, he sounds just as elated as Ford. "Talk about overcomin' social anxiety, huh?"  
  
He quickly finishes off the last of the pizza, and tosses the container in the garbage, sucking grease and cheese and sauce off his fingers, washing it all down with another guzzle of lemonade. If he's full, he's giving no indication, though his tummy hardly looks worse for wear either--Ford's just not aware of the fast Stan had placed on himself so he could go on like that today.  
  
"Why don't we just stand here and lookit this thing for a bit. You earned it." He takes a small step away from him, to put distance between them and hopefully reduce Ford's ability to sneak a touch to his tum, as much as he knows he's aching to do so. "And there's a bathroom over there if you wanna get cleaned up but  . . . I'm timin' you if we go in there."  
  
"No," Ford gasps softly. "I just... want to let it build.  Just-- god, just take me wherever you're going to take me next I can't-- I need to move, if I just stand here I'm going to go crazy."  
  
He also wants to pass by another food stall to see if Stan will stop to order something from it... but he doesn't say that out loud. He doesn't need to, it goes unsaid, given the way Ford keeps stealing glances down at the shirt tucked in around Stan's heavy gut.  
  
"You're the boss, applesauce. Well, not really. **I'm** the boss, and we both know it, but just this once, I'll let you take the reigns--and that's just because I want some of those gyros we passed by earlier."  
  
Yep, there it is. More food. Even if it hadn't been a kinky day, he would have bounced around to every stall, getting a little bit of everything, to the tune of Ford complaining about ruining his diet and probably giving him a blowie later in the parked car. It might still pan out that way, but Stan has plans for Ford that involve some very heavy pounding later.  
  
They've still got a long way to go  before that happens, though. 


	2. Private Exhibit

The vibe stays off, blessedly, as they stand in line for gyros. Stan orders two of the things and they come out steaming--heavy with sour cream, onions, tomatoes and lettuce, the lamb smells like it's to die for and they're hardly even out of the line when Stan picks up the first of the two massive sandwiches and takes a bite, smearing sour cream over his lips.  
  
They walk to the next exhibit--it's a walk-through sort of thing meant to educate children on the digestive system, and they walk first into a giant, open mouth that's been erected like a tent complete with a beating heart sound effect. Inside it's dimly lit and it would be a bit difficult to see directly in front of your face if it weren't for the lights every ten feet or so.  
  
Stan's still happily crunching away on the Gyros and sipping from a freshly filled lemonade when he bumps in close enough to Ford that their elbows touch and he turns the vibe back on, set to its lowest for now but having just orgasmed, it's enough to get Ford squirming again.  
  
It catches him off guard, and it probably shouldn't have. But Ford stumbles slightly, glad that there aren't very many people in here, and leans slightly into the wall on one arm, shuddering softly. The vibrations working against him again have him visibly shaking.  
  
"Stanley," he whimpers under his breath, his thighs threatening to give out. The pressure of the plug against his sweet spot was difficult enough to walk with, but for some reason he had the stupid idea that this would get easier to deal with as they went on. As if he would somehow get used to it.  
  
Quite the opposite. After just his second orgasm of the day, he's already feeling weak in the knees, and white knuckles the side of the goddamn exhibit just to keep his legs under him-- and this is the lowest fucking setting??  
  
Watching him, almost apathetic in the way he continues to eat, Stan debates before cranking the vibe up to the second setting, adding pulse to the mix. He watches with catlike stoicism as his brother struggles to stay upright, clinging to the walls of the dark exhibit like he's being pulled down into a vat of quicksand.  
  
"God these are good." He states nonchalantly, biting into the second Gyro, juices dripping down his hand--and despite not reacting to Ford's shaking knees and panting breaths, inwardly there's a low pulse in his own gut that he has to deep breathe against to keep from popping wood right then and there.  
  
Ford looks around desperately and sees that they are, in fact, alone for the time being, so he turns around to put his back to the exhibit wall, both to take the pressure off his trembling legs, and just to give him something to hold onto as he rides out the intense pulse against his prostate. This is only setting two, and still the highest he's felt so far-- out of five? How is he going to survive the fifth setting, he already feels like he's absolutely coming apart at the seams.  
  
"Stanley," he whispers, watching his brother just stand in front of him and eat, his hand stuffed into that evil, evil pocket. "Oh-- oh my god--" he clenches his fists against the wall, resisting the urge to touch himself-- to touch Stan without permission.  
  
In the dim pulse of the lights around them, Ford can see Stan _looking_ at him with an absolutely ravenous expression on his face. It's the look he gets when he's ready to tear into him, and for the first time since they started this little adventure, he can see that Stanley is struggling too--he wants to alleviate Ford's desperation with a kiss or a touch, but instead he just licks sour cream off his lips and takes another bite.  
  
His finger slides over the remote, and he from just a foot or so away he rumbles, "Don't you fuckin' dare cum without my permission."  
  
And he cranks it up to three.  
  
Ford's hand flies up to clamp over his mouth and his legs completely give out. He catches himself against the wall only barely, his thighs clamping together and trembling violently. If anyone comes into the exhibit right now there will be no doubt what's happening to Ford, he doesn't even have the capacity to disguise his facial expressions. His feet go pigeon-toed and he swallows his moans with choked little sounds, his hips thrusting into the open air.  
  
It's so good, lightning is shooting up from his spine to his brain in a steady stream. His pelvic floor is clenched up in a constant rolling spasm, and the shuddering settles in all the way up to his shoulders. There are people right outside, people in the next room over, there are so many fucking people here!  
  
His other arm shoots out without thinking of permission and grabs Stan by the shoulder, clutching the leather of his jacket with a creak just to stay standing, and judging by how much weight Ford leans on him, he can tell how close his brother is to outright collapsing.  
  
Taking his time, Stanley lets Ford grab onto his jacket, but in retaliation he holds his finger on the button, ready to turn it up again if he needs to; and he lets Ford suffer for awhile longer, finishing off the last of the gyro as he watches, carelessly tossing the trash aside on the ground in a balled up wad.  
  
As soon as he's done eating, he takes a quick glance around and leans down, grabbing Ford by the shirt, yanking him up until the toes of his boots just brush the ground and he holds him there, looking up into his face and growls, "Good boy. You can cum now."  
  
Ford does without hesitation. He collapses against Stan's chest and bites the leather of his jacket, his full weight encircled in Stan's arms just to stay on his feet. If anyone walks by they'd just look like an amorous couple embracing in the dark, but luckily nobody does-- because Ford's hips pump and rut desperately against Stan's thigh as he rides the level-three vibrations into oblivion.  
  
His brain shorts out to peaceful nothingness as he practically swallows mouthfuls of Stan's jacket to keep from making a single sound, his face going red with the effort to not even so much as squeak. The vibrations are absolute hell after the worst of the climax passes, leaving him shaking and weak-kneed against his brother, fighting just to remember how to breathe. He hadn't even been  hard that time, and his cock wept just a couple flimsy drops into his briefs to join the first orgasm soaking heavily into the fabric.  
  
Stan lets him ride the vibrations for just a little longer before he carefully turns the vibrator off. Taking great care, he helps Ford into a darker corner of the exhibit, where no light is shining, and he sits down with him, just wrapping his arms around him and cradling him against his chest, recognizing well a subdrop when he sees one.  
  
"Shh, I've gotcha." Stan murmurs softly--no one can see them here, not unless they brought a flashlight into the place, but that defeats the purpose of the exhibit entirely, so the chances of such a thing happening are slim to none. He just brushes hair away from Ford's brow and lets him rest for a bit, as best as he can anyways, with that thing pressing against his prostate.  
  
"You're doing so well." He praises.  
  
Ford looks lovingly up at his brother, his expression foggy and dim but so, so pleased. He reaches up to rub his own face, to try and get his brain to reconnect with his body, and blinks back up at Stan with his glasses still on his forehead. he can't see at all, Stan is nothing but shapes in front of him in the dark, but that's comforting. He reaches up and grabs him by the lapels of his jacket, dragging him down into a kiss and panting out through his nose.  
  
Stan groans against the kiss--he might have had reservations before, but his resolve breaks and he kisses him back hungrily, Ford's lips opening the floodgates. In the dark, his hands move down his brother's hard chest and belly, flicking down to touch him gently through his slacks. His heart is beating fast and hard and there's no stopping the blood as it flows into his cock and sends his head on a dizzy high that's only heightened by the sloppy kiss they're sharing.  
  
Ford pants through his nose as he pulls back, licking over his lips as he looks up at his brother with love and heat in his eyes. He kisses up over Stan's jaw and then looks forward again as he lowers his glasses, inspecting the exhibit. It's still empty, and his eyes catch something in the corner-- a cord tying a curtain up out of the way. Licking his lips again, he leans out over Stan and yanks the knot until the cord slips free and the curtain unfolds, swaying out in front of them. It doesn't cover the entire dark alcove... but most of it.  
  
"Stanley," he whispers in his brother's ear in a low rasp as he reaches down and takes a firm handful of his crotch through his jeans. "Stand up and take it out. I want to swallow you."  
  
"You know I can't say no to you." Stan grunts, but despite his chastising, he feels a little more secluded now that the curtain's drawn, he just won't be able to make much noise. He gets to his feet, bracing himself on the wall for a moment as his head swims, and once he's stable, the sound of his zipper can be heard in the quiet.  
  
He pulls his pants down around his hips and slides his cock out through the slit in his boxers and eases the thick head against Ford's lips, begging for entrance, and when he parts his lips, Stan slides in, moaning low under his breath as the slick of Ford's mouth envelopes him.  
  
Ford kneels up, sitting on his feet as he loosens his jaw to let Stan slide all the way in. Like a puzzle piece fitting into its neighbor, Stan's cock slots down Ford's throat without trouble, pressing down past his practiced tongue and thrusting into that tight channel. It's all Ford can do just to keep his lips curled over his teeth as he gulps, encouraging Stan to fuck his throat with light tugs to his jeans.  
  
It's all he can do just to rock his hips shallowly down over his own folded ankles, grinding the plug in his ass greedily, as if he hadn't had a knee-shaking orgasm just a minute and a half ago. He's insatiable, and as he hears someone walk through the exhibit past their hiding place, a thrill shoots through him. It's good that Stan's cock is pinned down his throat, or he would have moaned out loud at the _thought_ of people walking by just a couple yards away, oblivious to Ford with a dick stuffed down his throat hiding just behind the curtain.  
  
Stan has to bite back every dirty word that comes to mind, hearing feet shuffle past them. Stan takes ahold of Ford's ears and uses them to pull his lips over him again, and again, his hips snapping to greet his mouth. While he isn't as loud as Ford, Stanley is vocal, so biting back his tongue from muttering filthy words to his brother is nigh painful, but the thrill of hearing footfalls nearby sends a hot chill up and down his spine that he cannot fight, and his cock, buried deep in his brother's throat, spills precum into his gullet, lubricating and making the sides of his throat sticky and hot.  
  
Ford keeps his eyes open and rolled up to look at his brother in the darkness, the whites of his eyes glinting from what low light there is, coming from past the curtain. His expression is absolutely dazed, blissed to hell and worshipful as he watches his brother fall apart as he fucks his throat. Ford's voice is going to take a little while to recover from this, it always does, and the idea of someone hearing his voice crack or wheeze at some point during the rest of the day has Ford's stomach clenching up.  
  
Greedily, Ford reaches out to try and sneak a hand into Stan's pocket, aiming for the remote. Even if he could just switch it on low... riding the heels of his own boots with the vibe off just isn't doing it for him, and he needs to feel again. He can't believe how swiftly he's gone down the rabbit hole of depravity... just this morning he was second guessing doing this at all, and now look at him.  
  
Oh how Stan would love to chastise his brother right now for reaching those sneaky fingers into his pocket--but he can't, otherwise, he'll risk blowing their cover to the tourists currently filing through the man-made cavern, so instead he shoos Ford's hand away, and cranks the vibrator up to four without a second word, or any work up for that matter--and he can feel his brother's utter shock and delight ripple through him as he gasps and gags around his cock, his ass immediately grinding against his heels.  
  
But oh how hard it is for Stan to bite his tongue. Dirty talk comes second nature to him, but he clamps his mouth shut, his yellowed teeth glinting in the low light of the exhibit as he grits them. His hands join at the back of Ford's head, and he thrusts now, fucking himself with his brother's filthy mouth while trying to remain as quiet as possible.  
  
Ford's eyes cross and then roll back completely, fluttering shut at the absolute pleasure rocketing through him and firing every single nerve ending into a vibrating, blissful haze. He gags around Stan's cock, grateful for the pressure of it down his throat to keep him from shouting in pleasure as the vibrator rips him a new asshole.  
  
He's hard again in seconds, still strapped to his thigh and leaking wetly into his briefs. He bounces his hips against the heel of his boots, rocking the plug into his prostate with vibrations so intense he can feel them all the way up to his teeth, vibrating in his throat and against his tongue. He's terrified that it's loud enough that the passersby can hear it, but honestly the vibe is so quiet nestled deep inside Ford that Stan can barely hear it, even cranked up as high as it is. Ford chokes and swallows around his cock frantically, holding onto his jeans for dear life just to stay upright as his brother fucks the absolute shit out of his throat  
  
Staying quiet is getting harder as Stan gets closer to his orgasm. The longer that Ford's tongue slithers aimlessly over the big vein on his cock, and each time he pounds into the back of his brother's throat, he gets closer to coming undone. Some part of him has the ability to think for a few seconds, however and he slides a foot forward to press against Ford's clothed cock, strapped to his thigh and aching to be touched; Stan himself, braces his arm on the wall  for support, meanwhile using the other to fuck roughly into Ford's throat.  
  
He waits and watches until the tourists move down the tunnel--bides his time until he can't see their feet under the curtain anymore, and he can't hear their voices carrying up the passage, then he slams deep into Ford's throat, issuing a gag from his brother, his foot still kneading against his cock.  
  
"You're gonna take it all . . . horny little faggot, ridin' that toy into oblivion." Stan chastises in a quiet, hoarse whisper. "You like that cock down your throat--you've cum three times today and it's still not enough for you, well you're gonna get what ya asked for and then some."  
  
Hearing Stan's voice has him falling apart all over again, only a scant couple of minutes after the last climax. He gags loudly, loud enough that it's good that the tunnel is empty again because it's a noisy, slick sound. His orgasm hits him like a freight train and he humps frantically against Stan's shin as he comes desperately, gripping both hands into his jeans as he rides out the indescribable pleasure of his orgasm being milked for the fourth time in just a few hours.  
  
"Agh God . . ." Stan whispers, his fingers fisted into Ford's hair as he cums too, the world shattering apart for a split second--his knees go a bit jellied, but he doesn't fall, instead he just rides his brother's face until he's spilled the very last of his climax down his throat, then he slumps heavily against the wall, panting hard, head spinning as he comes down from the thrill.  
  
Ford just waits obediently for him to pull back, and then makes a show of gulping thickly, still riding his heels and the oversensitive zing of that vibe as he wraps his lip around the head of Stan's cock, just to suck wetly at the tip and consume every possible drop of spunk he can milk out of him, reaching up to grope his balls at the same time through his jeans, massaging them tightly in his palms to try and encourage just a couple more spurts across his tongue.  
  
Making no move to stop Ford, Stan leans back against the wall, his chest and heavy belly heaving with the simple touch--if massaged and stroked just right after he's had one orgasm, Stan can sometimes have a second, albeit smaller, one and Ford knows exactly that.  
  
He slips his hand into his pocket, ready to turn up or off the vibe if need be, but the feeling of Ford's tongue across his piss hole and under the glans of his cock causes a spasm deep in his gut and with a few final strokes, Stan cums again, groaning soft and slow under his breath as more slick jizz coats Ford's awaiting tongue.  
  
Ford leaves his mouth wide open this time, his jaw slack as he looks up to watch Stan. He lets it pool in his mouth before sliding it back in his throat and swallowing with a wet gulp. He whines as the vibrations make his teeth chatter and he grinds his forehead into Stan's thigh with a shuddering breath. "God-- please, please," he gasps out weakly, his stomach clenching so hard it hurt when another wave of oversensitivity rips through him.  
  
"Please what?" Stan growls, shoving his cock back where it belongs. "Use your words."  
  
" _Please_ shut it off," Ford's breathy voice comes out in a whimper.  
  
"Good boy." The click of the remote is so soft, not many would even pay the sound much mind, but the sound of it is thunderous to Ford as it hails the ceasing of the once-endless punch of the vibrator lodged inside of him. There's still that relentless sensation of being filled, but even that takes a backseat to just how good it feels to have a break from the teeth-clattering vibrations.  
  
Stan slides to his butt on the floor and sits down with a sigh and opens his arms to Ford, inviting him to take a bit of a rest with him.  
  
Ford immediately sags into Stan's chest, trembling with aftershocks and the pent-up arousal of four orgasms in three hours. He sighs against his lapel, nuzzling into his shirt as he turns around to face the wall so he can tuck himself inside Stan's coat chest to chest, peppering soft kisses up his neck to his ear.  
  
"Stanley..." he whispers, tugging on his earlobe with his teeth. "Mmm... you smell so good."  
  
Stan presses his nose against the top of Ford's head and inhales softly, kissing him there.  
  
"You do too." He mutters, wrapping one heavy arm around Ford, which is such a great comfort after being so overstimulated, just having that pressure bearing down on him is instantly relaxing. Taking Ford's hand, he drags it across his belly, and lets him feel the tightness there--he's nowhere near stuffed, but he's made a sizeable dent in his capacity with all the fair food.  
  
Ford whines low in his throat, bearing his weight down against Stan, just to feel the slight tightness of his belly against his own stomach. He wraps his arms underneath the coat all the way around his waist, squishing their chests and bellies together, sighing with pleasure at the hard little ball of food inside Stan that remains unmoved.  
  
"My god," he whispers hoarsely. "You are so... _fucking_ irresistible."  
  
"Ya really know how to compliment a guy." Stanley chuckles, rubbing his brother's back as he squeezes into him, kneading and cuddling up against his firm stomach, which does gurgle slightly at the intrusion.  
  
"Maybe I should give ya multiple orgasms more often, you're insatiable when ya get like this." He shifts, allowing Ford more room to hug him, his own arms wrapping firm and snug around his body and squeezing, so they're pressed right up against each other, leaving him just enough room to breathe.  
  
Ford gives a quiet, drunken-sounding giggle against the side of Stan's neck, scraping his teeth over his throat as he cuddles against him. "You're going to eat more, right?" he murmurs, his voice rasping and tired in his throat as he rubs and nuzzles his face into his shoulder. He can't get close enough, can't get enough of Stan. He just want to climb inside his clothes and live in there with him, he's feeling so needy.  
  
Stan doesn't mind how needy and clingy he is, it's adorable if he's honest, the way Ford seemingly wants to meld with him just to be as close as possible. Just to give him a little something to soothe that ache, Stan squeezes him hard, right up against his gut and breathes out hot and heavy against his forehead, his voice a low grumble.  
  
 "You kiddin'? I haven't even had half the fair food yet, all this?" He gives his gut a pat and it makes a noise like a drum. "Just a warm up. I'm gonna eat so much, and you're gonna have to _watch_ , but maybe if you're good, we can sneak behind some of the tents and rides, and I'll let ya feel it between courses. How's that sound?"  
  
Ford whines out breathlessly through his nose, crushing his face into Stan's shoulder and he gives a wordless nod of agreement. "Let's get out of here while there isn't anyone around," he whispers, as the tunnel has fallen silent once more. He leans back to let Stan to his feet, but when he accepts his help to stand himself, the toy shifts inside him and even with the vibe off, it presses against his prostate and shoots a wave of pleasure through him so powerful that he grunts loud enough they're lucky there's no one around, and his knees quiver and give out, toppling him into Stan's chest with a whimper of, "Oh god--"  
  
"Hey, you alright Stanford?" Stanley asks, genuine concern softening his voice. He helps his brother stand upright and makes sure he's stable before he lets him stand on his own. "We can go take it out if it's too much, ya know? It's okay." '  
  
Ford grips the lapels of Stan's leather jacket so hard that it squeaks, and he yanks Stan in close like he's fixing to headbutt him right in the face for such a suggestion as he hisses, "Don't you dare."  
  
"Okay, okay." Stan laughs. "Just straighten yourself out before we get outta here, alright? Don't want the EMT's gettin' ideas, that could be an embarrassin' conversation."  
  



	3. Circus

Once he makes sure his brother is okay to walk, Stanley steps out from behind the curtain and makes sure the coast is clear before gesturing for him to follow. They make their way through the dark exhibit so as not to arouse suspicion from the ticket taker, and when they come out the other end, they circle back around to the thoroughfare, where all the restaurant kiosks and carnival games are.  
  
The sun is starting to hang low in the sky, just the slightest tinge of purple and gold in the clouds, but they have no intentions of going home yet. Just as they step out and begin looking for something else for Stan to cram into his gullet, there's an announcement over the loudspeakers that the circus performance is about to start, so Stan takes his brother by the hand and guides him toward the big, Italian-style red and white tent that's set up near the entrance of the fairgrounds.  
  
Inside, it's so dark it's hard to see too far ahead, but a light from the ring illuminates the area somewhat. Circus performers, clowns and a few carnival workers are bustling around near the front; there's a concessions stand that's stocked with all kinds of food from popcorn to candy, ice cream, soda and a few savory options like hot dogs and nachos. There's a bin full of what look like light sabers that are flashing every color under the rainbow to entice young children into begging their parents for one.  
  
Stan shoots Ford a grin, "What should I get? You want a light saber?"  
  
"No, I don't want a light saber," Ford blushes, ducking his head with a laugh. "I'm not a child, Stanley... that said, I wouldn't mind a little cotton candy." he looks over the options, his mouth watering not at the thought of how they taste, but the thought of how full he could entice Stanley to become by getting him to eat it all while they're sitting down. He knows the moment will come when they stand, and Stan realizes he'd overestimated how much he could comfortably fit, and it makes his stomach clench.  
  
Leaning in to keep his voice down, he murmurs, "I think you need two hot dogs, an order of chili nachos, a soft pretzel with cheese, and a big cherry slushie."  
  
"Is that what you think I need?" Stan quips, even as he's taking his wallet out to thumb through the bills--he's loaded, it's not like he has anything to worry about. He orders it all, plus a cotton candy for his brother, and the two of them find a nice, quiet corner in the bleachers where they can sit and be discreet about their activies.  
  
While they're settling in, the arena in the center of the bigtop fills with clowns and jugglers, all performing to get the audience riled up for the main acts, one of which seems to be a pair tightrope walkers or acrobats of some kind, they're warming up near the back of the tent.  
  
Stan smiles softly as he watches the scene unfolding, taking a big bite of one of the loaded hot dogs, and he talks through a mouthful, of course. "Remember that circus we saw as kids?"  
  
"You mean the one with the freak show?" Ford smiles, wishing he could rest his head on Stan's shoulder... but he probably shouldn't risk it, just in case. "Of course, how could I forget?"  
  
He watches Stan eat instead, tearing off little pieces of the blue cotton candy and letting them dissolve on his tongue. He's going to have bright blue lips by the end of it-- but it'll be worth it. Maybe he can leave some blue streaks on Stan's dick, if he's lucky.  
  
"Yeah, remember we saw that kid with the lobster claws and it made ya feel a little better about your hands." In the dark, Stan gently squeezes his brother's hand, laid down by his side, but he doesn't linger, he just offers him a sweet smile, and takes another bite of hotdog.  
  
A few minutes later, music begins to play and the ringmaster comes out, dressed in spangly red and black, with a tall red tophat and Ford can't *help himself* ribbing Stanley about the resemblence, which makes his brother hunker down and tug his fez on a little tighter, his ears turning red. The ringmaster announces the two performers, who practically gallop from the back of the stage, one is a beautiful, sunkissed goddess with radiant, brown locks named Isabel and the other, a man named Gustav, sports a big mustache and is proclaimed to be her husband. Whether or not any of that's true is up to the audience to decide, but what they do next surely cannot be argued with.  
  
Gustav starts up the wire strung diagonally at an angle from the ground to the tightrope atop and as he does, his *wife* whilst singing an operatic tune in a beautiful contralto pitch, begins to _climb_ her husband until she is perched atop his shoulders, practically on her tip toes, arms outstretched, belting into her earpiece.  
  
Stan's mouth goes slack jawed as he watches, clearly mystified by the whole affair, looking back at Ford and gesturing to the performance, muttering "can you believe?" under his breath.  
  
Ford just shrugs like he can't believe it-- but honestly he's paying much more attention to Stanley than to the performance. Just as he suspected, when Stan is around food while distracted, he just keeps munching. Honestly it's a problem he's plagued with himself, he's been known to graze without thinking if there's food in front of him while he's working on something.  
  
He watches Stan's jaw work, watches his throat ripple as he carelessly works his way through the food without thinking, and he feels his stomach start to heat up again. They're in such a public place that it makes his skin prickle to even think about feeling aroused here, but that only turns him on more. In the dark like they are, seated in the back, there's very few people around to look at him-- and those that are nearby are focused so intently on the show that he feels comfortable rocking his hips slightly against the cushioned bleacher, just to rub the toy against his oversensitive sweet spot. Even without the vibe on, he's come so many times from that spot alone that the lightest little rolling pressure against it shoots lightning bolts of pleasure to his cock.  
  
Stan eats the first hotdog, and the second one in hardly a blink of an eye--he eats so fast, he practically inhales the food, but then again, he'd probably inhaled some air into his stomach too. It's a good thing that the music and the crowd is so loud, because he keep *belching* but Ford can definitely hear it. If only he could press his head up against his belly and hear all the sloshing and churning.  
  
If the first act had him captivated and _munching_ the next really gets his blood going--acrobatic dancers, and jugglers, clowns and elephants. His eyes are spinning watching all the action, he forgets really the task at hand, but his fingers and mouth surely don't. Stanley crams his gullet with nachos between heavy gulps of slushie, and occasionally he sneaks a rub to his stuffed gut.  
  
Ford rocks his hips down harder, massaging the toy against his prostate and breathing out hard through his nose. He hasn't looked at the performance in minutes, his eyes are glued to Stan's mouth, his throat, his stomach. He bites his lips between his teeth just to keep his mouth closed, breathing out hard through his nose.  
  
Chancing a glance around them, he can see that nobody is looking at them, so he sneaks a hand between his own legs, pressing the heel of his hand against his trapped cock. Another hard pulse of pleasure settles in his gut at the touch, he can feel the wet squelch of his previous orgasms crush against his cock and it has another thick bead leaking out to join the rest as he gropes and massages the sticky slick against his prick.  
  
Stan is completely oblivious to Ford's plight, completely dazzled by the performances under the big top, but that's part of the allure of the situation, seeing his brother stuff himself full without even realizing . . .  
  
And he surely doesn't.  
  
Stan shakes the slushie around, trying to get some of the flavor back into the ice, but he gives up and pops the lid off and just *scoops* the ice into his mouth by tilting the cup back into his mouth, and he crunches noisily on the ice; and that's just how it goes from then on out. Between heavy bites of messy, chili cheese nachos, he gulps back mouthfuls of ice and sticky syrup like it's going out of style.  
  
Ford has to press his knuckles to  his mouth in order to keep quiet as he grinds the toy against his prostate, pinching the abused little gland between the wand inside him and the hook underneath his taint looped around his balls. He grips the railing beside him with his free hand, his eyes constantly flicking back and forth from the people around them to make sure they're still going unnoticed (they are) and back to Stan to make sure he's still eating (he is.)  
  
He can feel his pelvic floor clenching up again-- with each subsequent orgasm the time it takes to ramp him up to the peak keeps shrinking, and even without the toy in operation, he's already close to coming again just from the gentle press of his subtly rolling hips.  
  
They're on the final act by the time Stan finishes the nachos. He tosses the empty container into a trashcan down by the side of the bleachers and glances over, catching sight of Ford mid-orgasm, or at least he looks to be, and he just smirks to himself, drawing no attention to it or the fact that he's seen it.  
  
But now that he knows his brother is watching, he makes more of a show of things. The final act is a slow sort of thing, with dancing horses and a parade of sequined and feathered dancers and jugglers, with a menagerie of animals all paraded about another ring. Stan's not paying much attention to it anymore, he's more focused on getting Ford off, but he certainly pretends to be distracted by the display.  
  
Starting on the soft pretzel, Stan leans back a little and makes a show of being full, stretching a bit, rubbing and *scratching* his belly just to drive home how tight and round it's gotten in the last half hour or so. He eats the pretzel with more cheese than is really necessary with each bite, and washes it down with heavy gulps of the now-melting slushie. There is cheese in the corners of his mouth and a dusting of crumbs on the shelf of his belly and chest, he's a mess and he knows it's driving Ford insane.  
  
Ford is practically having an aneurysm with the effort it's taking not to climb directly into Stan's lap and fuck himself on the toy against his thigh while he lays against that round belly. He knows how big Stan is capable of getting, and he knows this is barely halfway there-- but it's still fucking noticeable. Stan is noticeably stuffed in public, and that alone feels so voyeuristic that as the thought hits his brain, he comes again.  
  
His thighs tremble as they press together, and he loses all thought of the people around them for a moment, turning his face away and properly covering his mouth as he squeezes his eyes closed. Thank god nobody turns to look at him, because his face goes very red as he exhales shakily out through his nose, his hips jerking in tiny little thrusts against the seat. For how muted the reaction is, one would never guess how intense the pleasure it-- though, Stanley might. He knows just how many orgasms Ford has had at this point, and how completely wrung out his body is by now.  
  
Stan lets his head shift over to watch his brother come undone, shaking and shivering--from all angles he just looks like he's having a violent coughing fit from a bad cold or something. Reaching over, Stan puts a hand on his back soothingly, and again to anyone else, it'd just look like a man comforting his coughing brother, but there's more to it than that for both of them, especially Ford who's coming apart at the seams at this point.  
  
The show finishes on a crescendo and the crowd's ecstatic applause, people standing to give a proper ovation and Stan and Ford are instantly lost in the crowd, so Stan takes a moment to lean in, making like he's checking on Ford as he's cumming in his pants and whispers, "I'm still hungry."  
  
Ford whimpers in his throat and his hips give a proper jerk forward that nobody notices now that they're all standing, and he exhales hard. "Stanley--" he whispers, pulling his hand just far enough off his mouth to whisper. "Oh my god, Stanley-- fuck, I'm still hard--"  
  
"Maybe we should do somethin' about it." Stanley growls into his ear, the crowd doesn't hear, they're all too busy cheering to notice two old men in the stands, and he's all too happy to milk this opportunity.  
  
"Right here?" Ford hisses, his voice going very high pitched.  
  
"Not here. We can find someplace . . . you wanna get outta here?" His hands are so heavy against Stanford's back.  
  
Stan helps his poor, addled brother out of the bleachers--or tries to. He himself stumbles a bit as he gets to his feet and lets out a huff of air followed by a belch that has a few people, who are filing out of the tent, staring at him, it's so loud.  
  
"Didn't realize how much I ate back there." He chuckles, rubbing his gut quickly, then he turns and helps Ford down.  
  
It takes a little bit to find a place secluded enough for the two of them to have some privacy, and it happens to be out by the stables where all the horses and cows from the 4H shows are being housed, to be picked up in the morning. No one will be by, except for farmhands every couple of hours, as the place is closed off to the general public and the only real onlookers to their dirty deeds are the pigs and cows.  
  
Stan opens one of the stalls and helps Ford inside. There's fresh  hay on the ground, but otherwise it's fairly clean inside. Taking extra precaution against being caught with their pants down, Stanley takes _something_ out of his pocket and ties it around the gate latch after locking it in place, and they're plunged into semi-darkness, just the soft glow of mutli-colored carnival lights filtering in through the chicken wire at the top of the stall.  
  
He crowds Ford up against the rough wood and stone, pressing his gut up against his brother's hard stomach, at last letting him touch and feel him for what feels like the first time in hours, and Stanley slots his mouth against his, giving a soft, hungry growl under his breath.  
  
Ford is instantly and insatiably a wreck. He melts against his brother, sagging into the wall as his trapped cock gives a painful throb against his thigh. He's sure his balls are purple by now, the vice around them feels so tight, and as he straddles one of Stan's tree-trunk thick thighs, he's grateful for their mouths being sealed together because the noise that Stanley swallows is heinously loud.  
  
He gropes the sides of Stan's heavy belly, rutting helplessly against his leg as he does his best to swallow Stanley's fucking tongue, sinking his fingers into the layer of fat over his brother's hefty gut, squashed up against him so tightly. His thighs tremble and shake around Stan's as he ruts into his leg, hopelessly horny and completely senseless with need.  
  
"I love you. I'm so proud of you." He says hoarsely, kissing Stanford a few more times on the mouth before letting his lips trail down over his heavy jaw and neck, fingers rucking up his sweater to feel the hard lines of his hips and ribs. "I've wanted to fuck you all day--watching you cum over and over again, God."  
  
He doesn't move away immediately, he just lets his brother touch and fondle his gut for a while, pulling up his shirt to let him spread his palms over his bare skin and feel the tickle of coarse, curly hair under his fingers, in the meantime praising him even more.  
  
"You deserve every second of attention you get tonight, Stanford. I wanna take care of you . . . do you want me to fuck you, or are ya too sensitive?"  
  
"Not yet," Ford gasps out. "I don't-- I haven't hit my limit yet. I don't want you to fuck me until after I have-- I want you to fuck me unconscious when the time comes. Just-- just turn the vibe on and let me... let me..." he trails off, panting against Stan's chest as he ruts into his thigh, his cock grinding up into the heavy, soft underside of Stan's full belly.  
  
"You're not **_done?_** I thought you hit your limit under the big top, there . . ." Stan's cock goes achey and hard at just that revelation, his head swimming with the suddenness of it. "What do you uh . . ."  
  
Stan blinks, trying to right his eyes which have gone crooked and he braces himself on the wall behind Ford, leaning his weight against him. "What do you want, Stanford? Use your words."  
  
"Turn it on," Ford begs, gripping the sides of Stan's belly and squishing them together to watch it compress and then sag back into place with fullness. "Please turn it on, Stan-- I want to ride your leg."  
  
"Okay okay. I'm turnin' it on." Reaching a hand into his pocket, he flicks the toy on low for now, not wanting to overstimulate him immediately, but even turned up to the second notch, it's enough to rattle Ford to his bones. With more purpose now, Stan pins one of Ford's arms to the wall of the stable and grinds his thigh against him, rutting in kind, his cock rasping against the heavy cloth of his jeans, and occasionally against Ford's own.  
  
"God I've never seen ya this desperate, Stanford . . . I could watch ya all night, you're so hot right now, fuck. Feel how heavy my gut is?" He guides his brother's free hand back to the sag of his stomach. "I'm gonna eat more when we get back out there, ya know? Probably gonna have to put the steering wheel up when we get back to the car."  
  
Ford grits his teeth in an effort to stay quiet, but it's a losing battle. If not for Stan's bulk holding him up he surely would have collapsed to the hay by now. Thankfully the sounds from the horses and pigs are enough to keep his voice camouflaged, but he's clearly having a harder and harder time staying quiet as the evening wears on.  
  
"Oh god!" he gasps, his head hitting the wall behind him and he shudders helplessly against his brother, completely awash in the sensations. Even just on the lowest setting his teeth are literally chattering with the pleasure. He goes completely boneless, fucking his hips down against Stan's thigh, the undercarriage of the toy hitting his leg with every downstroke, and with every rough buck back up, his cock slams into Stan's heavy belly.  
  
He grinds his leg against Ford's cock, kissing heavily along his stubbled jaw, his mouth leaving a hot line of tingling pleasure. With Ford's shirt rucked up, he presses his palms flat against his chest, massaging his nipples ever so slightly with firm, wide strokes. It's just enough to give him jolts of pleasure, but he doesn't pinch or knead, not wanting to take Ford apart with too much involvement.  
  
The curve of his heavy stomach, he presses tight against Ford's, so that every time it gurgles or churns he can _definitely_ feel it thrumming against his own abs. His thigh is warm and broad, grinding against his cock in time with the pace Ford's set for himself, and Stan couldn't be happier to be the vehicle to his brother's release.  
  
Ford grabs both sides of Stan's belly and pushes, shoving the entire heft of it down, giving him a softer, heavier warm pouch to fuck into. His teeth find Stan's jacket and bite down with a desperation to stay quiet, but even then keening whines and throaty groans leave him as he rides the waves of pleasure from Stan's thigh while barely upright on quivering legs. His eyes roll back, taking Stan's jacket with him as his head hits the back of the stable, and he looks absolutely lost in it, like he's having a fucking out of body experience as he breathes frantically through his nose.  
  
Stan's just become his fuck pillow, grinding his belly and his thigh in tandem against his cock, one hand pressed and rolling against Stanford's nipple while the other clamps down hard over his mouth; this makes it hard for him to breathe, hard for him to gulp lungfuls of air, but he can still breathe through his nose. Leaning in, Stan presses his face as close to his ear as he can get it and growls, "You can scream now, Stanford. Nobody'll hear ya--I got a hand like a bear's paw, Sixer. Let go . . . just let it go."  
  
Ford does, and it seems to be the allowance of his voice that gives him the room to get off. Every noise is muffled, cut off in his throat as he fucks desperately into the hot space he's created for himself with Stan's belly, and he comes again, impossibly, practically screeching into Stan's palm.  
  
He shakes so violently with this one that Stan has to bodily keep him upright against the wall. His feet lift right off the ground as his back arches off the surface behind him, his head tipping back and his entire body spasms for a few seconds before he sags again back into Stan, heaving from head to toe as he whines in a panic through the gag of his palm-- too much, too much, turn it off-- too much--  
  
Stan fumbles with the vibe controls, nearly dropping it in the hay--which would have been very bad, indeed--but he manages to catch it last second by the key ring and he flicks it off quickly; then with all his strength, he lowers both he and Ford into the soft hay and he lets his brother sag into his body, heavy and warm, completely fucked out.  
  
"I gotcha . . ." Stan mutters softly, shrugging out of his jacket this time, leaving him in just his flannel and the henley under it, he's warm enough without it, and he takes off Ford's glasses and drapes the heavy leather coat right over him, squeezing him tight in his embrace, trying to bring him back from the brink of being overstimulated. He continues to whisper softly to him, just sweet calming things to keep him aware of his surroundings.  
  
Ford shakes for a few moments, but it's the weight and familiar smell of the coat, coupled with Stan's squeezing arms that keep him from breaking down crying-- not because he's upset, but just from the sheer amount of feeling in his exhausted body. The trembles stop and it leaves him boneless against Stan's chest, licking his lips and swallowing dryly as he slowly hovers back up to the surface from yet another powerful drop. Today has been a roller coaster of ups and downs, and it's exhausting him in a very, very satisfying way.  
  
Mumbling something incoherent, he turns to rub his face into Stan's neck, relishing in the inability to see for once-- it makes things less overwhelming.  
  
"You're okay. I'm here." Stan mutters again, for what feels like the tenth time today, and yet he's not tired of saying it. He's always glad to be there for Ford when he's coming up from a drop, it's always a joy to see him find his way out of the hole, emerging fresh and new, albeit tired and in need of a nap at times. "We can rest in here awhile, if you need to . . . might be a good idea." Stan nuzzles him softly, brushing sticky, wet curls away from his forehead, then he trails a thumb delicately over Ford's cheekbone and leans in to kiss him soft and sweetly.  
  
Ford's mouth is slack and numb against Stan's, and just the rasp of his stubble against his cheek is enough to send him into a short, full-body spasm as he moans weakly against his lips. "Stanley..." he gasps, his belly clenching in a way that's verging on painful. "Oh my god... closer... lap, please--"  
  
Stan grunts softly in the half dark, and shifts Ford on top of him with great ease, wedging him down in his lap and draping his whole body over his own, arms encircling him. He pulls the collar of the leather coat up so it's cradling Ford's ears, and he just lets his head rest on his chest there, their tummies pressed together; it's also very apparent just how hard Stan had gotten watching him get off again, but he's making no move to deal with the problem, Ford's in too much of a state right now and he can always jerk off quickly before they continue on their way.  
  
"Issat better?" He asks, squeezing Ford tight.  
  
Ford folds his arms between them like a cat, hiding in the dark cave of the coat. He feels completely safe, despite the fact that they're still technically semi-public, and he leans his full body weight comfortably into Stan, sighing in relief as he soaks in the smell of him.  
  
"You smell good," he mumbles hoarsely, his voice raw and fucked to pieces. "Nn... you're hard."  
  
"You smell good too." He grumbles back, leaning his head to one side to let Ford nuzzle and sniff him like a pleased dog. Chuckling, he admits, "Yeah, but we're focused on you right now. Don't worry about it."  
  
Ford tries to grind his hips down against Stan in protest, but the moment the bridge of the toy makes contact with Stan's crotch and grinds into his prostate, he seizes up with a yelp of oversensitivity, exhaling hotly and shivering against his brother's chest.  
  
"Stanford . . . take it easy." He mutters, raking hair back away from his face. "You don't need to do that, it's okay. It'll go away on its own."  
  
"I want to..." Ford murmurs stubbornly, licking his lips and pressing kisses into Stan's neck. But he's definitely too oversensitive to help right now, at least not with his body. "Can you reach around me?" he whispers, his voice cracking and wheezing for a moment. "Touch yourself... I'll talk to you."  
  
"You really want me to get off, huh?" Stan teases lightly, but he does reach around Ford--one of the perks of being built like a gorilla--and the sound of his fly unzipping can be heard. The soft sigh he gives, and the way his legs splay ever so slightly apart tells Ford that he's got himself in hand.  
  
He strokes lazily for now, running his hand along the thick vein on the underside of his cock, thumb swirling over the tip, paying special attention to his pisshole, then back down the meat of his dick to cup his balls.  
  
Ford gives a little shudder of pleasure, delighted by the soft whuff of breath against his shoulder, and he kisses up the side of Stan's jaw to his ear, tucking his nose against his hair so he can murmur low in his throat, his voice coming out as a husky, quiet growl.  
  
"When we get home, I'm gonna ride you until I can't sit up anymore," he murmurs. These are promises they both know he probably won't have the energy much less the stamina to fulfill-- but that's not really the point. "This toy has been fun, but nothing can really satisfy me except your cock. You can wring me out as many times as you want with your fingers or toys, but it won't ever be enough-- not unless I get _fucked_ the right way."  
  
"Agh, Stanford . . ." he groans, letting his fingers lead the way to his orgasm, Stan drags them over his cock a few more times before he decides the glide isn't slick enough, and he reaches into his pocket for the travel sized bottle of lube and squeezes some out into his hand before returning to the task. The slick glide of his hand joins the sounds in the quiet little stall, along with his heavy breath and Ford's low murmuring.  
  
Ford sucks on the shell of Stan's ear with a soft groan, his stomach clenching at the sound of Stan's voice rumbling against his chest. "I need you to cum inside me, Stanley," his own voice goes breathy with arousal and he gives an overstimulated whimper when he feels his own cock twitch at the implications of his own damn dirty talk. "I want you to cum in me until it's leaking down my thighs, I want you to step on my face and make me eat it out of the carpet when it drips out of me."  
  
Stan's eyes squeeze shut, just to keep his brother from seeing them drifting in two different directions. His mouth sags open and he pants softly, dragging both hands in slick motions, up and down his cock, never neglecting to swoosh his fingers over the head, paying close attention to the rim of his glans and the piss hole; precome leaks down the shaft, joining the lube and making the glide slick and noisy.  
  
"Ah God, Sixer I wanna cum inside you . . . you're gonna feel so good, your hole is so . . . slick and soft right now, I bet." There's desperation in Stan's voice, the pace of his hands picking up.  
  
"At this point, I might not even be tight anymore," Ford hums in his ear, grinding down slightly on his lap. He's still oversensitive, but at least it doesn't hurt anymore-- not as badly anyway. "I'm so slack and tired... when you fuck me I'm going to have to clench up, otherwise you'll just fall right out of me."  
  
The thought of Ford's loose hole fluttering, soft and pliant against his cock causes a little pulse of excitement in Stan's gut, accompanied by a hard squirt of precome, so generous he might have thought he'd cum right then and there if he didn't know better. Biting down on his lip, Stan picks up the pace, caressing his cock in time with both hands, his hips working the hard length through his fingers, so he's practically fucking his own hands.  
  
"God Stanford, I'm gettin' close . . ." he opens his eyes to look at him, swallowing thickly.  
  
Ford cups Stan's cheeks and rests his forehead against his brother's, panting against his cheek as he kisses his mouth sloppily, without real purpose. "Come, Stanley," he murmurs. "Come in the hay... nobody here will know what we did... nobody here will know you fucked your slut brother in a horse stable because he couldn't stand anymore you've wrung him out so hard."  
  
Whether he needed permission, or those words are just the final nail in the coffin, it's unclear to Stan but he doesn't think about it for too long before, as with Ford's uttered words, he cums, silencing himself into his brother's mouth, the only noise he makes a low growl in his chest. Pleasure spikes hot and rapid through his stomach, shooting down and up through his cock and he points his prick down into the hay so he can shoot off without consequence.  
  
Thick jets spill down into the bedding, despite having already cum once today there's a little pool on dirt floor, seeping into the soil. Stanley squeezes the head of his cock, demanding every drop before he relaxes back against the wall, panting and quiet.  
  
It's a moment before Stan regains his breathing, and when he does he laughs, "I'm still hard . . . God."  
  
"Now you understand my pain," Ford teases, rubbing his face into Stan's neck. "Do you think you can cram it back in there, or do you need to use my mouth? I wouldn't say no to another good throat fucking. Though I can't promise I'll still have a voice by the end of it."  
  
"No . . . no sweetheart." Stan cups his face and leans down to kiss him softly. "It'll go down if I give it a rest. . ." he trails off as another little wave of pleasure pulses through his cock and he goes a little wall eyed. "I'm just so fuckin' hot for you right now."  
  
Ford grins and grabs Stan by the collar of his shirt, and yanks him off the wall, twisting them both at the waist and slamming his brother down to the ground, knocking the air out of his lungs. He's come down from his last orgasm enough by now that he's able to grind down on Stan's wet cock without completely falling apart-- though the light pressure of the toy grinding against his sweet spot in kind does make his thighs shudder as he ruts against his brother.  
  
"Hot for _me?"_ he murmurs hoarsely, still holding him by the shirt as he bounces in his lap as if he were properly riding him.  
  
"Hey! Whaddaya doin'--Ford?!" Stan groans, his back arching, but he doesn't try and push his brother off--the hard bounce of his ass against his still-hard cock makes him see stars, and he's hardly coherent enough, still recovering from his orgasm, to argue with what's happening, so he just grinds his achey prick up against Stanford's clothed ass and gives a broken groan as pressure builds up in his belly again.  
  
Ford bites his lip to keep from shouting, the pressure of the toy against his prostate rolling his eyes back just a little in his head. He reaches into Stan's pocket and grabs the remote from him, smirking to himself as it turns it on the lowest setting. It zings pleasure into his system at a low buzz, but he's more interested in grinding his hips down hard and using those vibrations Stan has been torturing him with all day against him.  
  
He drops his hips in tight little circles, pressing the buzzing bridge of the toy connecting ass to balls against the length of his cock, sending those same torturous vibrations right back into Stan's belly.  
  
"Oh God! If ya wanted to top all ya hadda do was a-ask . . ." Stan tries to keep his voice low. His hands grab onto Ford's hips helplessly, and it's all he can do to grind right back up into those vibrations, already so close to another orgasm that it won't be long before he comes undone.  
  
Ford drops his head back, his mouth falling open with pleasure as he feels Stan rut up into him, and jab the toy deeper inside him-- fucking him by extension. It's enough to have him shivering from head to toe, already halfway to coming undone again just from a few seconds of grinding, he's become so viciously oversensitive. The flush rises back on his cheeks and ears, coloring his face a bright crimson as he grinds the vibrating toy against his brother's cock and practically chokes him with his collar he's holding onto him so tightly.  
  
Stan bites down on the collar of the jacket around Ford's shoulders as an intense wave of pleasure crashes over him. He cums again, the orgasm shaking him apart so violently that it's all he can do to wrap his arms around his brother and crush him against his chest. He growls low in is throat, the sound choking and dying off as the spasms of his orgasm tear through him and leave him panting, red faced and tired; still he holds Ford firm against him as he slumps back, completely spent, his cock finally, blessedly softening.  
  
Ford turns the vibrations off immediately and lays down against his brother, panting with exertion as well. He lays his head against his shoulder and chuckles softly in amusement, feeling Stan's full stomach gurgle and churn against him.  
  
"I thought _I_ was supposed to be the one who's out of my mind after all this?" he teases, giving the corner of Stan's jaw a bite.  
  
"I love you . . . do ya really expect me not to get all worked up seein' ya like this?" Stan asks, breathing heavy and stuffing his cock back into his pants hastily, so he can turn over in the hay and return Ford's kiss. "You know how much I love watchin' you come undone, you're like a work of art."  
  
"We should get out of here before we get caught," Ford murmurs. "We haven't even gone down the other end of the fair... and I'm still forming complete sentences, so your job isn't done yet," he smirks, tapping the end of Stan's nose.  
  
"You're right, how could I be so careless?" Stan grumbles, and he gets to his feet first, then helps Ford up. They dust each other off, so the evidence of their time in the stable isn't clinging to their backs, as hay is wont to do, and Stan takes his jacket back, slinging it over his shoulders with a heavy shrug.  
  
Then they're back outside and sneaking out of the stables, back to the thoroughfare as if nothing had even happened. By the time they've returned, the sun has set completely and the carnival is in full swing; where one might think the place would be winding down, there are even *more* people out now, so many in fact that it's a chore to maneuver around without bumping into someone, and Stan knows that's going to get to Ford; so he walks in front, acting as a battering ram to the idiots not watching where they're going. While Ford is tall, Stan commands a certain presence because of his size, and the ragged look of his face. Nobody wants to mess with the three hundred pound ex boxer. 


	4. Ferris Wheel

Stan's first order of business is to get more food, as he'd promised his brother he would and he intends to hold true to that. Really, he'd love to leave Ford somewhere and surprise him by returning with a feast, but abandoning him in the middle of this bloodthirsty crowd is not the best idea so he just goes right up to the next stall and gets an American classic; a corndog.  
  
Not just any corndog though, two footlong corndogs with a side of gravy for dipping. He can feel his arteries hardening just looking at the things, but he doesn't think on it for too long. They take his lemonade back to the stand and he gets another refill and the two of them start to make their way up the other side of the thoroughfare, Stan munching away happily on the first of the two corndogs, loud and messy as ever.  
  
Ford does his best to walk even, but every tiny shift and brush of the toy against every part of him has his stomach clenching, and he's really glad he hasn't had anything more to eat than cotton candy, or he'd almost definitely be vomiting it up by now just from all the oversensitivity clawing up his insides.  
  
He's the one who catches sight of the ferris wheel first, and he tugs on Stan's sleeve to get his attention, gesturing towards the big lit-up thing with his chin as Stan finishes off his second corn dog. Ford isn't even surprised that he can still be eating after everything he's consumed, but goddamn if he isn't helplessly turned on by it.  
  
"Go get in line," he says, leaning in to murmur in Stan's ear, and even with all the people around them Ford knows everyone's involved in their own thing, so he chances a quick bite and tug to his earlobe. "I'm going to get something for you, and you have to finish all of it before we go all the way around."  
  
"Alright, I'll be here." Stan replies, and he desperately wants to follow up his goodbye with a kiss, but leaves it hanging unacted upon in the air between them. He tears his eyes away from Ford's retreating back and just stands in line, trying his best not to look like a weird, awkward old man who's looking to ride the wheel all by himself.  
  
To help himself relax into it a bit, Stan pulls a half-smoked cigar out of his pocket and lights it, annoying several people around him but he ignores their looks of dismay and enjoys his smoke.  
  
The line moves forward at a crawl. There's a lot of people vying to get on the damn thing, and it's slow going, filling up all the seats, because the wheel has to turn and come to a complete stop to let people onto it and once there's enough packed into the seats, the carnie lets it go around for awhile before letting people file off at an equally slow pace. Stan can't help but look at his watch every now and again as he smokes, wondering where Ford is and what he's fetching.  
  
Ford returns a moment later with two large cardboard containers, one in each hand, and both of which smell heavenly. They aren't the only people in line with food, luckily this is one of the few that actually allows you to bring it on, and Ford holds one of them out to Stan, to at least cultivate the illusion that they're each going to be eating one thing.  
  
In one container are a couple of thick, six-inch pastries of some kind, smothered in powdered sugar and drizzled with frosting and crushed up rainbow something,-- and the other, a wide savory waffle cone stuffed full of tempura veggies and crunchy fried chicken strips, covered in spicy mayo. Both of them are hefty on their own, and by the time Stan finishes both, he'll be severely edged towards uncomfortably overfull. And judging by the look on Ford's face, he's absolutely living for that fact.  
  
"Ah jeeze you're not fuckin' around, huh?" Stan chuckles, opening the first box containing the waffle cone. It smells so good, that despite being stuffed to the point of frequent burping, Stan's stomach gives a weak grumble of _desire_ as the scent hits his nose. He's not really sure how to eat it, so he just takes a huge bite out of the top of the cone, which causes mayo and grease to smear all around his mouth.  
  
He makes the most irritating noises as he eats and they draw closer to the finish line and thereby, to boarding the ferris wheel. A few people stare at him, he's just being so _loud_ as he shoves fried chicken strips and vegetables into his mouth like he's never eaten a day in his life, and that very fact clenches deep in Ford's gut because he knows just how much Stanley has eaten today, and yet despite that he's still eating with gusto.  
  
He's already halfway done with the damn thing before they've even approached the carriage, and as it slowly swings by they climb on board the enclosed capsule. In moments they're lifting off and it's slowly carrying them up into the sky. The entire trip takes a full 20 minutes to go around, which is plenty of time for them to get busy.  
  
"Is it good?" Ford licks his lips as he watches Stan tuck back into the fajita cone, his breathing labored as he imagines how fucking tight he must be feeling right about now.  
  
"Agh, it's so good." Stan groans--in the quiet of the booth, drowning out the noise of the carnival, Ford can _hear_ his guts churning to take on the next load of carbs and heavy fat, but Stan doesn't seem even a bit affected, or if he is he's doing a damn good job of hiding it; however, a glance down shows him a little more, in that when sitting with his heavy gut in his lap, the buttons near his bellybutton are straining a bit at the fabric.  
  
Reaching into his pocket, still chowing down with his other hand, Stan turns the vibrator on again, swearing he could hear it buzz to life, but he's more enraptured by the way Ford's hand shoots out to grab the bar in front of them, and the sharp inhale through his nose.  
  
"Oh god--" Ford moans. They have a little more leeway to be noisy here, the nearest people are 15 above and below them in their own capsules, but he still can't be as loud as he normally would be. Reaching out to grab the bar with both hands, Ford has the second container of food nestled between them on the soft bench.  
  
Ford immediately sets to rocking his hips down in a circle, his head dropping down to hang between his straightened arms. His mouth goes slack and he pants, moaning softly as his cock swiftly hardens in its little harness, swelling and straining against the strap containing him. He bends forward, crossing his arms on the bar and resting his forehead on them-- there isn't anyone here so he doesn't have to be shy or discrete about the way he rolls his hips down, nudging the toy against his prostate with each rock of his hips.  
  
Stan watches him carefully, but he continues to eat, almost finished with the first item and now that he's sitting down he can really feel the weight of everything he's eaten pulling on him. His gut sits heavy and hard above the line of his belt, which is digging into the soft fat under his gut, painfully so but he's got work to do yet, and he intends to do it.  
  
Picking up the other box, he leaves the other on the floor of the capsule and closes the space between he and Ford, sitting hip to hip with him. The box is opened, and he picks up one of the pastries and pops the whole thing into his mouth, crunching and chewing noisily right there next to Ford.  
  
Through a full mouth he asks, "You want some help?"  
  
A powerful shudder rips through Ford at the sound of his brother's growling voice and he sits up, hunched slightly over the bar still as he grips it with both hands. "Please," he moans, shivering as another intense wave of sensation rocks him down into his guts, slamming into the pleasure jittering up from the vibe against his prostate.  
  
"Unzip your pants and pull out your dick, hot shot." Stan commands as he finishes the next little pastry. He watches Ford fumble for a bit before helping him and once his pants are open, the _smell_ hits Stan like a truckload of cement bricks. God, it makes his stomach clench with need, just that scent alone.  
  
They manage to get Ford free of his strap, his cock breathing for the first time since this whole thing began. He's sticky and wet, a thick, funky layer of jizz and precome coating his thick cock, so that if Stan were to wrap his hand around it, he wouldn't really need lube--but that doesn't stop him from applying some to the palm of his hand, just to make the glide better.  
  
The instant he wraps his fingers around Ford, his brother sits back hard enough in the seat to make the whole affair rock back and forth. Stan slides up beside him casually, dragging his palm and fingers up and down his brother's slick cock, wrist twisting up, overhand on the glans so he can rub and tease him there expertly, all the while chewing in his ear.  
  
"Oh my god," Ford's voice wheezes and shudders out of him, and he white knuckles the bar in front of them desperately. "Oh my god oh mygod _ohmygod **ohmygod**_ \--"  
  
The pleasure is absolutely overwhelming. Ford's brain completely short circuits, all of the thoughts and worries shutting off like a damn light switch. He rocks down onto the toy, jabbing it into his sweet spot, and then fucks back up into his hand, unable to make his mind up which sensation he likes more, or is even more intense.  
  
"Stanley--" his voice goes high pitched and his thighs fall apart, trembling violently as his stomach clenches and heaves in heavy waves.  
  
"God you're really desperate, huh? My hand doin' this to ya, imagine what my cock's gonna feel like when we get home." Stan sounds pretty pleased with himself, all things considered, though that arrogance is somewhat stifled by the wet burp his sentence ends on. "Oh God, I'm so full . . ."  
  
He keeps his pace steady, but he takes time to explore every inch of Ford. After he's popped another pastry in his mouth and sets the box aside on the bench at his other side, he cups Ford's balls with the other hand, kneading them between his fingers carefully but with purpose, his thumb dipping against his pisshole, fingers trailing along his shaft and the rim of his cockhead, all the while chewing and grumbling against his ear.  
  
Ford gives up on the bar in favor of pressing his back into the seat, and he covers his mouth with both hands, struggling to keep from shouting out loud. "Higher," he gasps as the wheel continues to spin, dragging them up farther into the air. "Turn-- turn it up higher-- please--"  
  
Stan doesn't question him, instead he reaches into his pocket, a bit worried but he flicks the switch up to three. He know if Ford gets too lost, he can bring him back from the brink of oblivion, he's always been able to ground him, but the concern is still there.  
  
Ford doubles over then for a moment, his entire face and neck burning red as pleasure surges through his system, and his cock leaks like a fucking faucet in Stan's hand. He moans loud, too loud, covering his mouth again to muffle it as he very nearly wails into the open air.  
  
"Too much--" Ford whines into his hand, muffled, desperate. They both know if it was really too much he'd use the safeword-- he's fully capable of stopping the entire affair with a single word, but he isn't using it. It's all part of the game. "God it's too much-- Stanley--"  
  
"Too much, huh? Too much for big, tough Stanford? You fought over how many dimensions and this fuckin' _vibe_ is too much for you?" Stan growls low against his ear. "Nuh uh. Not happenin' on my watch, Pal."  
  
And he turns it up to four.  
  
Ford is shaking from head to toe now, and his legs shoot out to press against the bottom of the tinted plexiglass window, just to keep him _upright_. The vibrations are so intense that it feels like the wand is sitting at the base of his fucking _brainstem_. He can't think, he can't even make his body move in any constructive way. He's absolutely mindless with pleasure.  
  
"Stop-- stop it, stop, please _stop_ \--" Ford begs, still pointedly not using the safeword. He _wants_ to be forced, he wants to be _made_ to feel this pleasure, even and especially against his will. He clamps his hand against his mouth again, fucking frantically up into the tight circle of Stan's fingers, bouncing down over the vibe buzzing so intense it makes his eyes water.  
  
The slick sound of Stan's fingers stroking over him are nearly drowned out by his brother's desperate, shaking sobs; and he might be inclined to give into those cries, but he knows better. He know _Ford_ better.  
  
He pops the last pastry into his mouth. It crunches heavy over his teeth, cream sloshing over his tongue and he talks through the mouthful, knowing how much it drives his brother crazy. "It's stayin' right there until you cum again, Sixer. You hearin' me? If you don't cum again you're gonna wish I'd fucked ya back in that stall, cuz I'll turn this thing up to five and have ya droolin' all over yourself. You'll hafta walk off this ride like a invalid, people'll stare at you--I bet somebody above us can hear you wailin' right now. Just one flick of the switch and I can have you screamin' Sixer . . . so you better cum, or I'll make it so much worse for you."  
  
Ford's eyes roll all the way back in his head, and he very nearly goes horizontal his hips slide so far down the cushion. His hips piston desperately upwards, the vibrations clenching a fist around his whole pelvic floor and yanking upwards with every tug of Stan's wet hand. The noises coming from between his legs are absolutely filthy, slick and sticky and sloshing, messy and dribbling back down over his length and soaking into his very wet briefs.  
  
They're close to making a full rotation now, they only have a couple minutes, but the pleasure is so intense that Ford keeps trying to twist away from it, nearly passing out from the intensity of being stroked skin to skin-- not to mention the way his stomach clamps down every time he hears Stan chew or swallow in his ear, pressed up so close against him. He ate it, he ate it all, fuck he's so full--  
  
Stan seizes immediately on the new position, and still milking Ford's prick from top to bottom, he moves his hand off his balls and reaches down between his thighs, fingers pressing firm to find the line of the toy strapped there. Once he feels the malleable plastic under his fingers, Stan presses his thumb right up against the base and _pushes it_ even deeper into Ford's guts.  
  
That finally has Ford shooting off like a rocket. Ropes of cum jet out of him with such force that it actually hits the window on the other side of the capsule, and his back arches up off the seat as the vibrations buzz all the way up into his stomach.  The toy isn't objectively large, but he feels completely stuffed with it, the sensations are so intense, so full-body intense.  
  
If not for the hands clamped over his mouth he would have screamed, and if not for the hold Stan has on his pelvis, he would have slid completely off the bench and collapsed boneless on the floor of the car he's so out of it with pleasure. Stan can feel the way his cock pulses and bobs over and over and over in his grip, as Ford's orgasm is blissfully, painfully extended by the vibe pressing up against his sweet spot.  
  
"Aw yeah, there we go . . ." Stan encourages, watching him writhe against the toy, bucking weakly into his hand, his cock still ramrod straight even after he's spent himself for the fifth time today. And he lets him ride it a little while longer, thankful that they're stuck on the high end of the wheel as the carnival worker below lets people out, one car at a time. They have a little bit yet before it's their turn, long enough for Ford to recover anyways.  
  
Stan finally relents his hold on the toy, hand shifting back to his jacket pocket to turn it off. The buzzing goes quiet, only able to be heard by Stan having exposed the toy. He helps Ford up into a more comfortable position, and hastily wipes his release off the window with his kerchief before tending to his brother.  
  
With that same kerchief, he wipes him clean, taking a moment to carefully wipe up his thighs too just to give him some relief from the wetness that's gathered there all day, then he helps him put himself back together, sliding his cock back into the strap and zipping him up, fixing his sweater and so on.  
  
Stan breathes out once they're finished, his gut is aching horribly now he's so stuffed full of fair food. Those last two things had really done him in, taking up more space than he'd expected now that they've settled and spread out in his guts; not to mention, all the fried food and dairy has him bloating up like a balloon.  
  
He slips his arm around Ford and tugs him close, kissing his brow after removing his glasses again, sticking them in his pocket so he can put them back on when they get off, but for now their absence allows him to lay his head comfortably on Stan's chest.  
  
"You're so hot when you fall apart." Stan admits softly, watching the lights of the fair through the tinted window. Everything looks soft and warm outside. The cries of other fair goers can be heard in the backdrop, as well as the tune of some song playing from the stadium nearby.  
  
Ford comes back into his head slowly and sluggishly, and he turns halfway to his side, a hard jolt shooting through him when the toy shifts against his prostate. He huffs out a strong puff of air at the sensation, rubbing his burning face against Stan's jacket with a soft moan.  
  
"You're so big..." he murmurs hoarsely, reaching out to rub his hand over Stan's belly. Usually just a little pouchy at the bottom, now it's like he'd swallowed a basketball like a great big snake, round and hard under his shirt. He pushes his fingers into it just to feel the lack of give and bites his lower lip, sliding his hand to the underside to lift the whole thing and feel its heft, before letting it sag back into his lap-- jostling a belch out of him in the process.  
  
"If you eat much more than this, you aren't going to be able to move," he groans in appreciation as he slides his palm in slow, wide circles over his gorged belly. "Mmh.... everyone's going to be able to see you like this. They might not know that you don't always look like this... but I do."  
  
Stan burps again, and complains about it, running a hand over the aching side of his gut, "You sure do, Sixer."  
  
He leans down to kiss him softly, spreading his legs a little to accomodate the new girth of his belly, and he reaches around to squeeze an arm around his brother, holding him tight, knowing that the pressure helps Ford ground himself.  
  
"This is the sweet spot, I think. If I eat any more . . . I might not be able to fuck ya when we get home, and I _want_ to fuck ya. So I think I'm just gonna let this all settle in for now if that's alright with you."  
  
Ford nods, apparently satisfied by this. "I need you to be able to do that..." he murmurs appraisingly, pushing his hand into Stan's gut. "If you don't fuck me when we get home I'm divorcing you."  
  
Stan just laughs, then the ferris wheel starts moving again. They snuggle up close until they're next in line to get off, and once the wheel halts at the bottom and it's their turn, Stan has a bit of a hard time climbing out of the cab, he's so stuffed; but once he's out on the platform, he puts himself together a bit and they descend the stairs leading out to the thoroughfare.  
  
"There's one last thing I want to do with you before we go home--and keep in mind, you're allowed to say no if you think it's too much, okay? I don't want ya tryin' to prove somethin' to me and endin' up hurtin' yourself." Stan's leading him somewhere, but it's not immediately apparent _where_ so Ford just follows along beside him.  
  
Ford feels a drop in his stomach at those words alone, hot just from the anticipation. He thought he was oversensitive before, but now waddling through the crowd after his-- what, fifth? Sixth orgasm? He lost count, but it's been so many that he feels a hard stab of pleasure up into his guts with every single step. It's worse because he can't even lean on Stan-- it'd be easier if he could lean on him and use him as a crutch, but they can't get away with that, not here.  
  
And it's even worse because every time he looks over at Stan, he sees the heavy globe that his stomach has become, rounded out and firm in front of him from the low paunch that usually sits on his hips. He wants so badly to just strip off Stan's shirt and worship that gravid curve.  
  



	5. Mechanical Bull

Stan leads him through the sea of fairgoers, occasionally shoving people out of the way if he needs to; it's not too long before they reach their destination, but it certainly had _felt_ like an eternity, with that toy riding so far up Ford's hole that he can feel it tickling his tonsils.  
  
Here, there's a ring of people gathered around the main attraction which becomes immediately apparent as soon as they push their way to the front; sitting in the middle of the wide circle, surrounded by a makeshift fence, is a mechancical bull. It looks real enough, with fur and glass eyes, complete with a saddle fitted to its broad back. Though it has no legs, it's situated on top of a short, pivoting arm, which in turn is embedded in a base made of leather and soft fabric extending out into a ring, looking very similar to a bouncy castle in appearance. It is, of course, for cushioning harsh landings so that would-be competetors won't fall onto the hard earth and get hurt, possibly costing the fair a lawsuit.  
  
There's a man barking on about the attraction, trying to entice people up. Stan comes right up to the fence, but he doesn't raise his hand just yet, he just looks at Ford with a questioning gaze and asks, "Too much?"  
  
Ford's hand immediately grips Stan's sleeve so hard it creaks, and an intense shiver rocks up his spine. "Too much," he whispers back, but he still doesn't use the safeword. "Oh god-- please don't make me do it--"  
  
"Over here!" Stan calls out to the carnival barker, whose head immediately whips around, and he starts to compliment Stan's physique, but he's hushed when the younger twin waves his hand. "Nah, not me--this guy. He's got a grip like a python, I bet he can beat your mechanical bull and win the prize--what're you offerin'?"  
  
"A hundred dollars prize for anyone who can stand a ride on the bull!" The man yells, but people are still muttering in the crowd. Stan shoves Ford toward the gate, and leads him inside.  
  
"Rules are anything short of tyin' yourself to the bull is a legal move! If you don't fall off after thirty seconds, the money's yours!" The man with the microphone barks, and the crowd's muttering picks up.  
  
"Stanley, please don't--" Ford hisses out through his teeth, but he's already being shoved forward with a whine catching in his nose. He can feel his face heating up already, and there are people milling closer to watch. He almost safewords, it's _almost_ too much-- but then he feels Stan's hand at his back and his confidence is restored. If they pull this off, it's going to be the most amazing thing he's ever experienced.  
  
Swallowing hard, Ford throws a thigh up over the stationary bull and hauls himself up, and-- oh god. He exhales hard through his mouth in a gasp as he settles over the saddle and it presses up against the bridge of the toy just right, sending a shot of pleasure up through him. There's at least twenty people all gathering around now, staring at him, watching him, waiting for him to _perform_. This is the absolute height of exhibitionism, after this Ford will be set for life.  
  
He swallows hard and nods at the ride operator, who takes his spot at the controls, and he grips the reins with both hands, twisting them into his fists. This will be just like the time he rode the battle-centaur on Pleitaurus Zed. Except different in every way.  
  
The bull starts out slow, but quickly picks up speed. Ford accommodates every swing of the bull by leaning away from it, counteracting every mechanical rotation with the perfect counterbalance. When it lurches forward, he grips it with his thighs and leans back, and when it tips up, he leans forward into it. It's like it's done it a thousand times.  
  
Stan doesn't give him much time to catch his breather, as soon as the bull picks up pace, and Ford is fisting the reins, and the piece of mecchano under him is twisting and jerking, his twin reaches a hand into his pocket and turns the vibrator onto the third setting to start with, and he can see Ford's face visibly go white as the vibrations shake through  him, worsened as with each lurch of the bull, his ass comes down on the toy, jamming it deep inside, tagging his prostate.  
  
Ford's brows furrow down hard and he gulps for breath. His mouth drops open and there's nothing he can do to close it-- his expression is one of pure bliss, but luckily it can easily be mistaken for concentration. Every time he leans up and drops back down on the toy it feels like a sledge hammer to his fucking brain. His thighs clench around the sides of the bull so hard that his hips tremble, but luckily that isn't visible with how much swinging around the beast is doing.  
  
He rolls his entire body with the motions once the thing really picks up in speed, and as the seconds tick by the operator is clearly getting surprised by how long he's lasting. More of a crowd is gathering at the sight of this straight-laced man in his turtleneck and his slacks riding the bull like he was born to do it.  
  
On a lull in speed, Ford takes a moment to push up the sleeves to his elbows. It exposes his scars and tattoos, but not only does that only seem to intrigue certain members of the crowd even more, but it gives him a break from the heat building in his body both from being watched, and from the buzzing against his prostate sending a thrum of pleasure through his entire body.  
  
Stan can't stop watching the jerk of his hips, knowing full well that Ford must be getting hard again under his slacks, his cock riding right up against the side of the bull. As more people filter in from around the fair, drawn by the operator and the cheering of those gathered, Stan knows this is his opportunity to really push Ford past his limit and get him to a new place altogether.  
  
Nobody pays him any mind as he slips his hand into his pocket and turns the vibrator up to its highest setting. He can only hope that his brother doesn't lose his balance and become a drooling, stupid mess i the bullpit, because there'll be some awkward explaining to do.  
  
Despite never feeling it before, Ford knows instantly that the dial has been turned up to five. It's like lightning just struck his entire body, the intensity of the vibrations inside of him are enough to practically turn his bones to jelly. The crowd is cheering even louder but Ford isn't even paying attention through the roaring in his ears.  
  
It isn't even about the money now. It's about chasing that absolutely incomprehensible level of bliss. He sways and rocks with the bull just for the pleasure of being able to slam his hips back down on it and shoot another bolt of pleasure through his system. His eyes have gone blurry and one of his hands slips off the reins, but he still doesn't care. He leans back to grab the back end of the bull with that hand, his back arched and his hips grinding harder down against the leather saddle.  
  
He's going to come, he's going to come in front of all of these people and nobody will even know. The strap holding his cock down is a godsend, or honestly they _might_ know. He grits his teeth just to keep from moaning out loud as a heavy pulse starts up in his pelvic floor, pleasure radiating out into his belly and up the base of his throat, shutting his brain off completely. He's never hit a drop like this before, with people surrounding him on every side and bright lights shining directly on him, but Stan can see the glassy look in his eyes-- he knows he's there. And as the seconds tick past 30 into 35 and 40, the crowd keeps cheering, and people are filming him, unwittingly taking evidence of a porn in the making.  
  
Stan watches from the crowd, breathing deeply through his nose just to keep himself from popping wood right there in front of everyone--and just like the crowd around them, he slips his phone out of his pocket and trains it on his brother, flicking the little red dot to record and takes _evidence_ of their private debauchery.  
  
His heartbeat slams in his throat as he alternates watching through the screen and peeling his eyes away to gaze longingly at his brother who seems to be ascending into some astral plane, taken up by the sensations rolling through his body as those heavy vibrations fill him to the core. Stan has to wonder if he'll let go before he cums, or if somehow he'll manage to ride the damn thing to completion.  
  
The crowd is cheering, but he wonders if they'd be so eager to do so if they really *knew* what was happening. It's all Stan can do to grip the metal fence and pace his breathing, watching Ford come undone in a sea full of people.  
  
Ford's pretty sure he hasn't reached his peak this fast since he was 14, but sure enough in just under a minute he's already climbing the precipice to his Nth orgasm of the day, his stomach clenching desperately. He's already past the 30 seconds, he's already won, now he just has a fucking point to prove.  
  
He manages to come without making a sound, gritting his teeth and closing his eyes as what is undoubtedly the most intense orgasm he's ever had rips through him like a fucking chainsaw. He doubles over the bull's head and the momentum finally gets to him, flinging him off the side and onto his back, where he immediately curls up on his side to try and at least feign like he's trying to get up while the ride operator turns off the bull, when in reality he's _still coming_.  
  
Then the ride operator is there, helping him up and he's being touched by a stranger, propped up in front of a crowd, hazy from his orgasm and the vibe is _still going_ inside him, and his panicked eyes flick up to lock with Stan's as the witless operator just tries to pump up the crowd, holding Ford's fist triumphantly in the air with his hand around his wrist. It's too much, it's visibly too much for Ford-- really, _actually_ too much.  
  
The vibe is off in a second. Someone shouts as Stan, getting irritated with the fence, just tears the gate open and the latch with it and rushes to his brother's side. The ride operator is shouting something but Stanley is hardly paying attention, not even taking in the words of the man, who soon turns back to the crowd, all shouting for Ford's triumph while Stan just tries to get him to come back to reality.  
  
He hastily takes the prize and shoves some amount of money back at the guy giving it out for the gate he'd destroyed, and with Ford in his arms, people looking on in concern, he parts the sea of fairgoers and plows through the thoroughfare, walking faster than he probably should be able to, considering just how _stuffed_ he is but adrenaline is a hell of a drug.  
  
Once they're far enough away from the crowd, Stan gets Ford around behind one of the honest-to-god buildings on the fairgrounds and settles him down in the soft grass where the noise and the bustle of everything has calmed down, and there's just the occasional conversation nearby and the roar of fair rides in the background, music playing from somewhere far far away.  
  
Stan takes his coat off again, this time the cold bites at his forearms, but he wraps it around Ford tightly and in turn squeezes him up tight in his arms, for the sixth or seventh time today, just to get some life back in his brother. "Hey, you're okay. I'm here. You with me, Sixer?"  
  
Ford had walked with him, completely insensate, and leans into Stan like a lifeline. He hears his words but it takes him several seconds to process what's just been said to him. He nods dumbly against Stan's shoulder, and once the pressure is taken off his legs he starts to tremble. And then, overwrought and completely satisfied, he starts to cry.  
  
It isn't upset crying, quite the opposite. Stan is very familiar with this type of cry, when he's wrung Ford out to his absolute limit and he just starts weeping because the emotion has to get out of his body somehow.  
  
"You did it. You really did it, Stanford." Stan rumbles, quiet and soft, holding him tight in his arms and rocking him side to side like one might a crying child, but he knows well the sensation will sooth his overstimulated nervendings. Realistically, he knows Ford isn't processing his words, but speaking helps calm him anyways.  
  
"You did it, in front of all those people--and I got it on video . . . keepin' that one for later."  
  
Ford's arms wind around Stan's waist, gripping his shirt loosely as he shudders and shivers against him, his tears soaking into his shirt. The bout of overstimulation calms quickly in Stan's arms, just like it always has since he was a child. He lays bonelessly against his chest, thoughtless to how full he's feeling and how tight the pressure of hugging Ford feels against his stomach.  
  
" _Stanley_ ," he whimpers, his voice rough and reedy as he rubs his face against his shoulder.  
  
Stan's belly clenches, and he belches softly under his breath as those squeezing arms wrap tight around him, his whole face going a bit stupid at the feeling, but he recovers quickly and nuzzles his face down against Ford's hair, laughing softly under his breath. "You're okay. I'm here. We'll go home soon, and you can lay down in a real bed and let me take care of ya."  
  
"Please," Ford gasps out, "God, please, Stanley, I'm-- I'm done, I don't want to be here anymore, take me home please, I want to lie down--" he grips Stan even harder, some of the good sense returning to his arms and legs at long last.  
  
Stan doesn't waste any time getting him back to the car. The bull incident seems to be forgotten, or at the very least, unnoticed by the vast majority of people here, though Stan has to wonder if it won't end up on the local news. He helps Ford into the car, and sure enough when he slides into the driver's seat, the steering wheel is just far too close to his gut for comfort, so he has to tilt it up in order to fit comfortably into the bench seat; and the seat belt itself? It barely fits over him. He's big on a good day, and he's just eaten a truckload of fairfood, so the belt is visibly straining around his middle as he slides it across and manages, just barely, to buckle it in place.  
  
"Ah jeeze . . ." Stan grumbles, rubbing the curve of his belly just as the seatbelt squeezes a burp out of him. "I told ya this was gonna be an ordeal."  
  
Impossibly, Ford feels another throb of pleasure settle deep in  his pelvic floor at the sight of Stan struggling to fit behind the wheel. He still has the jacket hugged around him so he can see the full curve of his brother's glut, pressed against the steering wheel even with it tilted as far out of the way as he can manage.  
  
"God, Stanley," he whispers hoarsely under his breath and swallows thickly. "You are so... _sexy_."  
  
"Heh, yeah?" Stan runs his hand down the side of his belly and shoots Ford a wink. "You sure you're not just a little desperate right now?"  
  
Despite deflecting the compliment, Stan's ears burn red as he pulls out of the parking spot and gets them back on the road, headed home. 


	6. Home Again

The drive back is quiet. Ford seems to drift in and out of consciousness, occasionally stealing glances over at Stan, who is struggling to find a comfortable position behind the steering wheel with his heavy stomach crammed up against it. Occasionally, he makes light conversation with his brother, just to make sure he's still alert, but for the most part he lets him rest comfortably in the bench seat of the DeVille and gets them home without consequence.  
  
The Mystery Shack awaits them, quiet as ever with the twins gone for the fall. Stan parks the car and the swish of the seatbelt leaving him, as well as the sound of the engine cutting off, alerts Ford that they're home and he sits up a bit dazed, seemingly having just traveled through time and arrived home.  
  
He can walk, but Stanley helps him inside anyways, and opens the door, instructing Ford to go to the bedroom and get ready, and likewise Stan wedges himself into the bathroom to take care of a few things himself before he emerges, face and mouth freshly washed, some of the fair smell gone.  
  
Ford has laid himself out on the bed. His shoes and socks are gone, and his belt is open, but otherwise he'd left himself clothed for Stan's discretion. Not to mention he's so completely exhausted that wiggling out of his clothes feels like an absolute chore, and he'd relish in the opportunity for his bigger, stronger brother to manipulate him around like a doll in order to peel off all his clothing.  
  
"Hey," he croaks from the bed, his eyes half-lidded as he smile sleepily at his brother.  
  
Sliding out of his jacket with a whisper of leather, Stanley chuckles and watches his brother for a moment or two. "You sure you wanna fuck? Ya look half dead--if you're not feelin' up to it, we could always go at it tomorrow--or after you've had a nap."  
  
"Stanley Pines," Ford says with a tone of grave seriousness. "If you don't fuck me after all that, god as my witness, you aren't welcome in my house anymore."  
  
"Okay, okay." Stan puts his hands up defensively, but he walks to the end of the bed and surveys the situation. "Really didn't make my job easy, didja?" He pats his gut, which makes a sound like a drum. "Did you forget how full I am? I'm gonna have to do . . . all the work."  
  
Bending over, Stan bodily drags Ford to the foot of the bed by his hips and yanks his pants and briefs down in one fluid motion, down his pants and leaves him shivering a bit on the bed. With a grunt, he maneuvers him around, and pulls off the turtle neck, discarding it nearby, leaving him completely nude.  
  
"I gotta do all the work around here, don't I?" The younger twin laments, as if he _really_ minded shucking Ford's clothes, but he descends on him despite his whining and presses a hungry kiss to his lips--and oh God he's heavy, his gut a hard ball crammed between them as Stan kisses him so hard it feels like he's trying to climb inside Ford's mouth.  
  
Ford whines into his throat and clutches the sides of Stan's heavy belly, his cock already waking up in the strap around his thigh for what feels like the tenth time today. Truthfully he's just lost count. He tips his head to the side, opening his mouth for Stan in tandem with his opening thighs, cradling and admitting Stanley in every corner of his body at once.  
  
The toy is still nestled inside him, getting it off and out of him is going to be an ordeal, but one he's sorely looking forward to and desperately in need of. He slides his palms up and down Stan's gut, groping at the rounded-out sides as he sucks on his tongue.  
  
His tongue slips inside, tasting Ford's teeth and his own slick organ, Stanley's cock already swelling to greet Ford's enthusiasm. They kiss for what feels like an eternity, just wrapped in each others' arms, then Stan pulls back and sits on his haunches, trailing his fingers up and down Ford's thighs and over the strap holding his cock down.  
  
Really, he doesn't need to ask him if he wants it off, he can read it in Ford's body language and even if he couldn't, the poor guy's had it on all day.  
  
"I think it's time we relieved you, whaddaya say?"  
  
Still stroking Ford's thigh, he leans over to fetch the bottle of lube from the bedside table, and squirts some out onto his fingers--then parting Ford's thighs, he reaches inside and slips his fingers around the base of the vibe and slowly begins to wriggle it free.  
  
Ford's back immediately arches and he sucks his lips into his mouth, biting down on them with a trembling squeak in his throat. His head tips back and his hips arch up, but his hole clenches helplessly around the toy, sucking it back inside the moment Stan starts to remove it.  
  
"Sorry-- s-- sorry--" Ford gasps out a harsh breath, and his thighs start to shake. "I'm sorry-- sensitive-- it's a reflex I'm sorry--"  
  
"Hey . . . hey, take it easy." Stan whispers, reaching up with the flat of his other hand and stroking it up and down Ford's belly in firm motions. "Let's just relax ya a little okay, just listen to my voice. I'm gonna take this thing out . . . and it's gonna feel real good to be able to move around again."  
  
Stan just mutters sweet things under his breath, taking the base of the toy again and begins to wriggle it free with soft, rocking motions, and whenever Ford's body sucks it back up, he just starts over again, keeping the palm of his hand flat on his brother's stomach, both to hold him down and stop his writhing, and to soothe him with a bit of pressure.  
  
Once they're over the widest part, the rest of the toy slides out with a wet squelch of air and fluid, leaving Ford's hole gaping and fluttering at the very _new_ sensation of being suddenly and completely empty.  
  
Ford gives a whine of displeasure at having nothing inside him for the first time in hours and hours. He'd gotten so used to the plug sitting snugly up against his prostate that it feels biologically wrong to have nothing inside him now, and his hips squirm helplessly with his thighs spread around Stan's hips.  
  
"Stanley," he can't manage to raise his voice above a whisper. "Oh god--"  
  
"Hang on. Just hang on, I've got ya." His brother grumbles, sliding Ford out of the strap on his thigh, and likewise the last remaining bit of the toy--the ring, he rolls off his cock and sets the whole thing aside on the bedside table to be washed and tended to later.  
  
"You want me now, or do you need a minute?"  
  
"Now," Ford gasps out, his back arching. "Now, now _nownow **now**_ \--"  
  
Stan really doesn't question it--and normally, he might keep his brother on his back, just so they could have at each others mouths, but he's still so full that such a position might bring some other unwanted side effects, so with ease, Stanley flips him over onto his back and lays him out on his stomach.  
  
"I want you to grab that pillow and hold it, Stanford." He orders in a commanding voice, and waits until his brother has done just that, upper body propped up, arms hugging the pillow, teeth biting down on the fabric--and with a hand to the small of his back, Stanley guides his cock to his brother's gaping hole and presses inside.  
  
It's _never_ been this easy to glide in. He's so soft and giving that the feeling of his pliant walls accepting his cock feels like coming home after a long day, and in a way it is. As his hips slot together with Ford's and his cock head slips right into that sweet spot, Stanley makes the filthiest noise.  
  
"Agh God . . . Stanford. You feel so--like a . . ." oh he knows he can't finish that sentence without making his brother feel self conscious but Goddamn if Ford's hole doesn't feel good.  
  
All of the breath leaves Ford in a hard gust against the pillow when he feels Stanley fill him up completely. It feels like he's reached his entire forearm up there it's so deep, and the pressure is so intense that Ford can feel his walls trembling and flexing around him. He can feel Stan so deep that it's hard to _breathe_ , and his eyes roll back and flutter shut.  
  
"Oh my god..." he whispers dumbly into the pillow, trying and failing to clench his slack, exhausted muscles around Stan's cock. "Fuck me, fuck me _please_ \--"  
  
Really, Ford doesn't need to beg, or remind him but Stan always _loves_ to hear him beg. It curls his toes. For now, he takes Ford by the hips, bouncing against him delicately at first, but he knows it won't be enough soon, so he braces himself forward, leaning into the momentum, and pounds his hips into Ford without a second thought, his hand gliding down the older twin's back to take him by the shoulder; with his body leaned out, his tummy falls heavy and hard on Ford's lower back, and it's not hard to feel, with each thrust, just how tight and stuffed that curve is.  
  
Ford sounds like he's dying. The noises leaving his body are being ripped out of him by the hand of god himself, they're so loud. The sensation of having Stan inside him after so many hours of torture, after so many hours of his insides being buzzed comfortably numb-- to finally have all of those tired nerve endings woken up by the heavy, weighty drag of Stan's thick cock plowing into him and forcing everything to move out of the way to make room-- it's absolutely indescribable.  
  
"Stanley!" his voice cracks, half-muffled into the pillow and pinned down under the heft of his brother like he's trying to fuse with the mattress. "Oh GOD! OH **GOD** , _Stanley!_ Oh GOD oh my **GOD!"**  
  
Stan occasionally sounds like he's _crying_ Ford's body feels so good, slick and deep, so soft and open; yet still those tired walls greet him, gripping him and fluttering around him, tugging him back into the deepest point. The thick, fat head of his cock batters his prostate with purpose, where the toy had only buzzed and vibrated, it had indeed been intense but there wasn't _intent_ behind it, not like Stan.  
  
His body moves like it was made for Ford, his hips snapping up in time with his brother's jerking hips, and Stan keeps them on task with one heavy hand on the back of his neck, the other at his hip, and he grinds him into the bed with the weight of his body, every ounce of effort just for Ford.  
  
"Agh God, _Stanford_ \--" It's all he can do to say his name, growling it under his breath like a prayer for strength.  
  
Ford devolves into absolute nonsense sounds after that point, syllables half-spoken and cut off by moans, gurgling and out of his fucking mind as he chews the pillow under him. He twists an arm back over his shoulder, gripping the wrist of Stan's hand on his neck, moaning approvingly into the cushion under his face. He feels so absolutely used, so completely raw and full of Stan, full of his whims and his desires and his fantasies and his cock. He feels like everything to Stan.  
  
"Stanley!" his voice breaks on the word, wailing at the top of his lungs as he digs his knees into the bed, his feet lifting up off the mattress and bending towards the ceiling, pointed straight up with his toes curled hard. "Oh god oh _god oh god_ oh **FUCK** \-- oh god I'm close Stanley don't stop-- don't stop _don't stop_ \--"  
  
The hand around his neck is crushing his face right into the pillow, so hard that were his glasses still intact, they might have been broken by now. Stan's just a grunting, growling _animal_ behind him, lost completely in the moment, his mind gone on vacation somewhere between his pounding heart and dick, but the sound of Stanford's whining and _screaming_ emboldens him and he doubles down, fucking him harder and faster as he too approaches his climax.  
  
Ford sobs when he comes, full-body shudders accompanying the tearful wails that rip out of his throat, leaving him hoarse and sore and aching. It starts in his abused prostate, dragged mercilessly against with every throat-deep thrust, and spreads out to his stomach, burns all the way up to his lungs and sends his thighs shaking. His cock throbs pitifully, releasing a few weak drops over the comforter, his body far too exhausted to produce anything more than that.  
  
But the pleasure swirling through him is unlike anything he's ever felt. He thought the _bull ride_ was intense, but that's nothing compared to this. The vibrations of the toy had been sublime, but even THAT was nothing compared to the hot, thick drag of Stanley's cock over every nerve ending between his asshole and his teeth.  
  
Stan isn't far behind, the first flutters of his orgasm come when Ford does, and as those gut-deep spasms jerk through his brother, pulling Stan deep, he finds his release. It leaves him like a column of fire, drawing a hoarse, guttural growl from the depths of Stanley's chest as he spills his load inside, coming so hard and fast his vision goes black, and the only thing keeping him up is the bucking of his hips against Ford's slackened body, his fingers crushing so hard into his brother's neck that they'll leave bruises later.  
  
"Oh God . . . Stanford--oh my God." His body goes heavy against Ford's, back hunched and finally he moves his hands, albeit sluggishly, to Ford's hips. Slick, white rivulets of cum are slipping down Ford's ass and thighs in streams from his sloppy hole, and when Stan moves there's the audible wet squelch of his cock gliding into his own mess.  
  
"Ah jeeze you're a mess." Stan mutters, looking down at the filth dripping onto the bedspread.  
  
Ford is left trembling on the bed, eyes open but his gaze completely vacant-- he's just _gone_. Nobody's at home, he's barely even blinking, barely breathing. He'll come back up out of it soon, but for the time being he's nothing but a shivering pile of sweat and cum on the bed sheets. His hole flutters and tries to close, but it's so slack that he gapes openly, the wet muscle twitching as hours worth of lube and seed leak down over his balls and soak into the covers.  
  
Honestly at a loss for a moment or two, Stan just pulls out of him and grabs his phone from the table nearby, taking a quick picture of Ford's slack hole, with _his cum_ inside, to save for later. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he just takes in the moment, trying to process how intense things had gotten himself, but soon he's up, stuffing himself back into his jeans and going to the adjacent bathroom to fetch some things to clean poor Ford up.  
  
It takes some doing, but he gets his brother all wiped down, clean and dry (which includes the bedspread) and tucks him down under the covers. He fetches the weighted blanket from the chest at the foot of the bed, and tosses it on for good measure while he goes into the bathroom for a second time, just to get himself cleaned up and in a good headspace before he returns, and when he does he's stripped down to his boxers and undershirt.  
  
Ford is still out of his mind, dropping in and out of consciousness by the time Stan crawls into bed after him; the lights are low, another log has been thrown on the wood burning stove, and Stan wraps him up tight in his arms, keeping the weighted blanket in place with a tug.  
  
"You can go to sleep if you need to, Stanford. It's okay. I'm right here."  
  
The rumble of Stan's voice seems to pull Ford at least partially out of the comfortable fog, and he lifts his head to look up at his brother. He just looks at him for several long moments, blinking and blind to the finer features of his face, but comforted nevertheless by his presence.  
  
His voice, when he speaks, is absolutely thrashed. He'll likely be wheezing for the next day or two if he tries to raise his voice over a murmur, but he speaks with absolute adoration purring warm and deep in his ruined throat.  
  
"I'm so in love with you, Stanley..."  
  
Stan sets his own glasses on the bedside table and gives a breathless laugh, then cupping Ford's cheek he leans in and whispers, "I love ya too, ya dummy." and presses a soft, sweet kiss to his lips. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> woof that was a long one ladies and gents


End file.
